


The Ganymede Cup (A Game of Hearts pt. 5)

by zmethos



Series: A Game of Hearts [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-16 11:30:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13635396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zmethos/pseuds/zmethos
Summary: Sherlock seeks Irene Adler's help when John is abducted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Once more with feeling: These stories were written after the end of the first Series/Season of _Sherlock_ and therefore do NOT reflect anything that came after. That means my take on the characters--and here, on Irene Adler in particular--are in many ways quite divergent from later in the series.
> 
> This story in particular has some flaws that made me hesitant to post it. There is, however, no way around posting this story if I want to post the remainder of the series because much of the content here is connective tissue for what comes after.
> 
> It gets pretty dark in places, as the warnings show. However, nothing is explicit.
> 
> For those who have been waiting for the relationship between Sherlock and John to blossom, this is the story for you.

THERE WAS, AT first, the momentary confusion of expecting to see one person at the door and finding instead someone else entirely. Coming hard on its heels was the frisson of recognition. It had been almost twenty years, there were more lines around the eyes and some salt in the dark hair, but yes, this was the man he’d known so intimately many years before. And in a dark and terrible flash, Sherlock was fifteen again, overwhelmed and powerless and utterly alone.

“My God, look at you,” Charles said, and the admiration in his voice was meant to make Sherlock feel good—on some level, Sherlock was aware of this—but it only served to drive him back a step the same way a blast of heat might. Sherlock became acutely aware of his increased heart rate, his rapid breathing, his shoulders tensing.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for this?” Charles went on.

“Seeing as I can do maths . . .” Sherlock replied slowly, his mouth dry, “yes.”

“Well, can I come in?” And here was Charles, all warmth and camaraderie, like an old friend stopping by. Never mind that it was after midnight now, that it was clear Charles had been watching the flat and waiting for Sherlock to come home.

“I don’t—” _You don’t what?_ he asked himself. _Want him to? Think it’s a good idea?_ This man had been his chemistry instructor and something of a mentor, at least at first. And maybe even at the end, though the course of study had certainly changed. This man had gone to prison on Sherlock’s account. Who was he to say no?

The sound of John’s voice jolted Sherlock out of the loop his deliberations seemed to be stuck in. “Who is it at this time of night? Lestrade?”

“No.” Sherlock took the opportunity to step back farther so that John could see their guest. “John, this is Mr. Charles Whitcombe.”

John took Charles’s measure in one unflinching stare. Not as old as John had expected; Charles likely didn’t have more than a decade on Sherlock, which meant he’d been a young teacher at the time of his misadventure, possibly just out of university himself. So this was no serial predator, not yet at any rate. Either Charles Whitcombe really had been swayed by passion or he’d had the singular misfortune of choosing Sherlock Holmes as his first, and ultimately only, conquest.

Charles was of average height, John reasoned, and fit for a man of his age. He had dark eyes and hair that was going grey in a way that made him look more distinguished than old. He was dressed very well, too, so he’d clearly made something of himself in the time since his release. John was suddenly very aware that he wore only his pajamas, and rather untidy ones at that.

John looked then to Sherlock in hopes of gauging whether his flatmate wanted to be alone with his visitor, but as usual Sherlock was difficult to read. He seemed stiff and a trifle pale, but that might not mean anything. But then John observed how white Sherlock’s knuckles were on the hand still holding the door—too tightly—and the way Sherlock’s body pulled away from Charles almost as if Sherlock were leaning back to increase the space between them. John’s eyes traveled to the telltale flutter of pulse at his flatmate’s throat and he understood.

Stepping forward, John offered his hand to their guest. “John Watson, pleased to meet you,” he said firmly, drawing Charles inside before turning to Sherlock, who was looking at him with an incomprehensible expression on his face. John met his gaze and put a hand on his arm. “Sherlock, sweetheart, why don’t you make some tea?”

If the endearment surprised Sherlock, it never showed. He blinked once, twice, and then replied mildly, “Yes, of course.”

John turned to Charles with an apologetic smile. “You’ll have to forgive him; he’s had a lot going on just lately.”

Charles stared hard at John for a moment, and though he smiled, the eyes were hard. “It’s me you must forgive; I shouldn’t have come so late. I was simply so eager to see him.”

“I believe he mentioned you once. You were one of his instructors, weren’t you?” John asked with mock innocence, and he could tell by the way Charles searched his face that the man was trying to determine whether John was playing him.

At length Charles’s gaze moved to where Sherlock was busying himself in the kitchen. “Yes. It’s been ages. Sherlock was a stellar pupil.”

“He does have an aptitude for it,” John agreed, earning another darting glance from Charles. “Please, have a seat. I’m just going to see if Sherlock needs a hand.” He walked over to where Sherlock surely would have been throwing things if he’d thought he could get away with it; as it was, he was being very hard on the ceramic mugs. John put a hand on his arm again, if only to spare their limited crockery. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock’s hands curled into fists on the countertop. “I don’t want to be alone with him.”

John nodded and gave one of the hands a squeeze, just for show of course. Though it occurred to him as he returned to where their guest sat on the sofa that Charles probably hadn’t been able to see it.

Charles nodded toward Sherlock as John approached. “That cut part of what’s been going on lately?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, he fell out of a boat,” John answered almost absentmindedly. He watched the skin around Charles’s eyes tighten as the man tried to see into the truth of the matter, and all at once John realized Charles thought John might have been the cause of the damage to Sherlock’s head. Which was something between absurd and infuriating. “You know Sherlock,” John added lightly. “There’s no stopping him when he gets an idea into his head.”

Charles’s answering smile lacked sincerity. “Need to keep the boy on a tighter rein is all.”

John was tempted to ask if that’s how he’d done things, but Sherlock was bringing the tray, which he set on the table before settling in a nearby chair. John handed Charles one of the cups then took up guard standing beside his flatmate’s seat while he sipped from his own mug. Sherlock left his tea untouched, his eyes focused on the windows across the room.

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” Charles said. “There were a number of factors that prevented my coming.”

Slowly, Sherlock’s eyes traveled to where their visitor sat. “And what brings you now?”

But Charles was looking at John. “It seems we caught you as you were going to bed for the night. You shouldn’t let us keep you.”

John kept his expression neutral. “It’s not a problem; I was waiting up for Sherlock anyway.” Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered at how easily the lie surfaced.

“Anything you want to say to me you can certainly say in front of John,” said Sherlock. When Charles only raised his brows, Sherlock added, “He’s seen the one letter you sent; he knows enough not to be surprised by anything you might want to tell me.”

“Ah,” said Charles in understanding. “I simply hate to think you might be angry or disappointed, dearheart. I wasn’t sure how much you knew about the—the trial and my conviction and such. I know Mycroft was keen to keep you out of it, so I didn’t know how much filtered back to you.”

“You received seven years as I understand it,” Sherlock replied.

Charles nodded. “Yes, and then there were non-molestation orders, you know, your brother being quite thorough. I knew he’d be watching you and that if I came within any kind of radius he’d find a way to clap irons on me again.”

Sherlock did not sympathize, nor did he deny Charles’s allegations. Instead he simply stated, “And yet here you are. What could be so important that you would risk my brother’s long reach?”

“Don’t put it that way, darling,” Charles pleaded.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “I am _not_ your darling.”

But Charles chuckled. “You always will be, you know. In part, if not whole.”

John sensed the building anger and tension in his flatmate and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You’ve moved on. I see that. I couldn’t have expected different, could I?” Charles continued. “But really, there was a stretch of time when you were impossible to locate. Next thing I learned of you, you were living with Mycroft, so I certainly couldn’t tread there. Now, though . . .”

“What of it?” asked Sherlock.

“I’ve read your website,” Charles said. “You always were clever. I’ve read some of John’s blog, too.” He frowned up at John. “Sorry if I seem nonplussed, but I thought you had a girlfriend?”

“John’s not particular,” Sherlock said.

Charles suspected he had stumbled upon a sore point. “I’m surprised you stand for it,” he told Sherlock.

“I don’t and I won’t,” Sherlock informed him.

John picked up the cue. “It was only a couple of dates, Sherlock.”

“Nothing happened?” Sherlock asked archly.

“We’ve been through this, and we don’t need to do it again now.” John locked eyes with his flatmate and fancied there was a moment of honest, burning fury between them, though he wasn’t sure from what seed it had blossomed. His father had always told him to walk away when he was angry, and experience had shown him the value in that philosophy, but now John fleetingly wondered what it would be like to physically fight the man seated in the chair beside where he stood, to push him against the wall or to the ground or simply shake some common sense into him. Sherlock had knowledge in spades but he had plenty to learn as well.

Sherlock’s visage, meanwhile, morphed from angry and offended to something akin to uncertain and perhaps wary as John stared him down. In Sherlock’s mind they had been playacting, John doing a remarkably fine job of it, but something had changed in these past moments, something that had his heart skipping again even though he couldn’t quite identify the reason.

Charles’s eyes darted between the two others, and John supposed he was looking for a rift, something he could use as leverage. Not wanting to lead Charles to believe that Sherlock was at all vulnerable to any potential plot, John set his cup down on the tray and leaned over to whisper something in Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly as if internalizing the words or maybe savoring them. Then he stood and said to Charles, “You’ll have to excuse me; it’s very late, and it seems as if I’m being sent to my room.” He stopped and scowled again at John. “If I’d wanted all these strictures, I could have just stayed with Mycroft.”

John offered a tight smile. “Yes, but Mycroft wouldn’t do for you what I do.”

Charles watched Sherlock storm off then said, “Perhaps your rein is tighter than I first imagined.”

“One picks one’s battles,” replied John. “I’m afraid we’ll have to say good night now.”

“I understand,” said Charles, setting down his tea and rising from the sofa. “I shouldn’t have come so late, and right after his being away besides. Tell him I’ll see him again soon?”

John nodded without comment and showed Charles Whitcombe to the door.

After locking up, John waited a minute, his eyes trained expectantly on Sherlock’s closed door. But when his flatmate failed to materialize, a prick of concern left John at a loss. Should he check on Sherlock? Or was the unopened door an indication that Sherlock would rather be left alone? They were back where they started a few nights ago, it seemed; John wondered if he would wake up in the morning and find Sherlock gone again.

And all at once he didn’t care.

Or maybe he did, but it was more in anger than worry. John began to wonder why he bothered helping Sherlock at all when it only resulted in trouble. For someone so self-possessed, the man was a walking disaster, particularly for anyone standing too near. Not for the first time in the past five days, John silently resolved to have as little to do with whatever was going on as possible. Why he had felt the need to insert himself this evening he couldn’t imagine.

John turned and gathered the tea things, forgetting his earlier desire to save them from Sherlock’s battering and so putting them at jeopardy once again as he all but slammed them to the tray and the tray onto the kitchen counter. Sherlock’s untouched cup slopped a bit and John hissed an oath; he just wanted to go to bed now, but if he didn’t clean this it would sit out indefinitely until it finally became one of Sherlock’s experiments.

The door to Sherlock’s room swung open just as John was giving the countertops one last wipe down. Sherlock emerged and began making agitated laps around the room. “He’ll be back; he wants something,” the detective muttered without preamble.

John slapped the sponge down and washed his hands, drying them on a dishtowel before moving toward his own room.

Sherlock stopped pacing. “Where are you going?”

“Bed. G’night.”

“Just like that?” A note of panic was creeping into Sherlock’s voice.

“What more do you want me to do?” John asked. “Sleep in front of the door?”

“No . . .” But what set John off was how Sherlock actually looked at the door as if considering the option.

“Good old John, he’ll do anything for you, won’t he?” John demanded. “Stitch up your cuts, pretend to be your boyfriend—”

“Simply works to our benefit,” said Sherlock.

“It works to _your_ benefit, not mine! None of what you do is for me! At best my wellbeing is a byproduct of your fascination with whatever mystery you’re solving at the time!”

“You’re shouting,” was all Sherlock said.

“Oh, and you’re worried I’ll wake Mrs. Hudson and the neighbors?”

“No, I just can’t think when you’re shouting.”

At which point John laid his hands on a rather large book and threw it with, Sherlock discovered, very good aim. The tome would have clocked him directly in the head if he hadn’t shied. “That’s not helpful, John,” Sherlock said reproachfully.

“I’m done being helpful,” John snapped. “I’m going to bed.”

“John . . .” Sherlock began, forestalling his flatmate’s immediate departure for his room, “Tonight, you know . . . What you did, it was . . . very accommodating.”

John closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. What had he hoped for, he wondered? It was no use trying to bring out any real feeling in his flatmate; Sherlock seldom functioned on such a level.

And yet tonight John had felt so close, as if the arrival of Sherlock’s ex-whatever had brought emotion near the surface. But even if that were the case, it was sinking again now, and John had no idea if or when it might bubble up again. And it wasn’t his job to dredge Sherlock’s heart.

“You should call Lestrade,” John said at length. “Get your mind on something else.”

“I’ll do it in the morning,” said Sherlock. “Think I’ll shower and . . .” He made a dismissive motion with his hand.

“If you need anything . . .” John offered against his better judgment.

But Sherlock shook his head. “You’ve done enough. More than enough.”

John hesitated. He felt like he was standing on a crumbling precipice, but maybe there was a chance to jump to more stable soil. “Wish you’d let me dress that cut.”

Cocking a knowing eye at the doctor, Sherlock said, “And I suppose you’d like a look at my ribs?”

“Shower first,” John told him. “No sense in my doing anything if you’re just going to get it wet.”

“You’re bossy tonight,” Sherlock remarked, but he turned to do as directed all the same.

“Doctor’s prerogative,” John sighed to himself as the bathroom door clicked shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing my version of Irene Adler, written before the series introduced theirs. Since Conan Doyle's Irene was a singer, I made mine a performer as well, but also a thief.

SHERLOCK EXITED THE bathroom shirtless and resigned to whatever ministrations John might feel necessary, if only to keep from being alone. It was strange, this desire not to think; it had been some while since Sherlock had last felt the need to break free of his own brain. He thought of his mind as a computer, always on and running, humming in the background when not in direct use. Powering it down was not an option, had not been since Mycroft’s and Mother’s intervention. So far, though, Sherlock had managed not to be tempted. John acted as added insurance; not only was he a doctor and likely to be stridently vocal should he find Sherlock mainlining, but he served as a valuable distraction. Too much time alone with not enough to do had always been a debilitating combination, but Sherlock had discovered that he did not crave as much time to himself with John as a flatmate. If nothing else, John was an interesting socio-emotional case study, and he also gratifyingly never ceased to be amazed by Sherlock’s work, even at those times when Sherlock himself found it unchallenging and dull.

Tonight more than ever, Sherlock needed John to divert him. Most of the time Sherlock could drop asleep without much thought, but he knew that night it would be impossible. And while it was true that he could call Lestrade and hope for something stimulating to come of whatever the inspector was working on, Sherlock decided he’d much rather have John stimulate him.

At any rate, he should use this opportunity to soothe whichever of John’s feathers he’d apparently ruffled. Letting John feel useful by playing doctor would be a start.

Except that he couldn’t find John. The living area was abandoned, and John wasn’t in his room. Sherlock even checked his own room on the off chance John had decided to go through some more of his things. But no, John was most definitely not in the flat.

 _Well, this_ is _diverting_ , Sherlock told himself. He began to roll through a mental checklist.

Could it be that Lestrade had turned up needing something? This was unlikely since if he had, John would have informed the inspector that Sherlock was home and Lestrade would then have waited for him to come out of the shower.

Sherlock focused for a moment on the door. It was unlocked, which only confirmed what was now obvious—John had left. Sherlock felt a sudden prick of vulnerability, mixed with an aggrieved irritation that John had abandoned him.

Maybe John was downstairs helping Mrs. Hudson with something. But not at this hour, surely. Mrs. Hudson was almost certainly sound asleep. Though if, against the odds, John _was_ helping her with something, he would return in a few minutes at most.

Had Sarah called and asked John over? If that were the case, John would have left a note . . . or a text message. Sherlock glanced around, trying to remember where he’d left his phone. He was starting to get cold, too; he would need to go find a shirt soon.

The phone was buried under the small avalanche of post that Sherlock had been sorting through earlier. He checked for messages, but they were all from Lestrade.

Could John have been more upset than Sherlock had estimated? Upset enough to leave without warning? Even with the promise of finally getting to fix up Sherlock’s injuries dangling as a carrot in front of his nose? John would have to be well and truly incensed for him to go that far Sherlock surmised. He recalled Lestrade trying to warn him of such a possibility not so long ago in fact. Sherlock wondered whether he had finally pushed John to his limits, and if so what might work to pull him back again.

As he considered his options, Sherlock idly scanned the flat, his eyes traveling over the familiar objects until they landed on something unfamiliar. A folded sort of notecard lay on the table where the tea tray had sat earlier, just one more piece of paper in a wide array of such things, but Sherlock was sure it hadn’t been there when he’d set the tray down before. So John _had_ left a note then.

Suddenly aware of how cold he was, Sherlock went to fetch a shirt before reading the note. But he knew upon finally snatching it up from the table that it hadn’t been written by John after all; the handwriting was Charles’s.

Sherlock glanced back at the door. He didn’t want to lock John out, but he didn’t want to leave the door unlocked, either. Deciding that he (or Mrs. Hudson, for that matter) could always let John back in, Sherlock stepped over and turned the lock.

_Dearest Sherlock,_

_I came to see you this evening in the hopes of getting your help, but you seemed disinclined. I owe someone a favor—I think you may know him, a Mr. Moriarty. His request is beyond my abilities, but someone as clever as you, my love, could likely pull it off. This is what I was coming to ask you. It’s clear, after all, that you knew I wanted something from you, something more than just you, though I’ve wanted that for years as you might imagine. You see what kind of coward I am, staying away all this time and only turning up when I need something. You’ve done much better to find someone else, though I flatter myself in dreaming that you only did so after concluding that I was not coming after all._

_Here is what is being requested: there is a Greek calyx on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. Fittingly enough it features Ganymede pouring a libation for Zeus. Mr. Moriarty has a private collector who is willing to pay handsomely for this artifact. If I can procure it for him, Mr. Moriarty will forgive my debts to him. If you can procure it for me, I will return John._

_I realize New York is a long way to travel and am sorry for that. I don’t suppose it would do me any good to apologize for the circumstances under which you must labor, but it seemed the only way to get you to comply. The sooner you accomplish the task, the sooner we can all be done with this unpleasantness. In the meantime I will keep John cozy for you and remain_

_Yours always,  
Charles_

Sherlock read the note once, twice, a third time until he could no longer see it clearly, the words swimming in front of his eyes. Why had John answered the door? There was no sign of a struggle; how had Charles convinced John to go?

Passport. He needed his passport and clothes . . . a bag. He needed to pack a bag. He needed to get to New York.

***

SHERLOCK HEARD THE telltale squeal and braced for impact.

“Sherl!”

“Irene,” he answered evenly, bearing the petite redhead’s fierce hug with as much equanimity as he could muster. “Please don’t call me that.” It wasn’t the first time he’d made that request, and he was sure it wouldn’t do any good this time either, but he felt compelled to keep trying.

“Let me have a look at you!” Irene stepped back and gave Sherlock the onceover then bit her lip and gave her head a tiny, disapproving shake. “I know that face. That’s the face of a broken heart.”

“What?” Sherlock sometimes had trouble following whatever counted as logic for Irene. “No, I—”

But Irene was nodding, pulling him into the tiny apartment. “Oh yes! You had that same look when Christopher walked out. And you didn’t come all the way over here to see my latest show.” This last was delivered with a certain amount of censure.

“So you’ve come all this way to forget about it,” Irene went on, taking his bag and tossing it onto the sofa. “We should be able to do that without too much trouble. What are you in the market for? Fling or full on rebound? I’d suggest a one-nighter, but you’ve always had trouble with those.

“I guess a lot will depend on how long you’re staying . . .” she continued to muse, “unless we find someone you can pack up and take with you.”

“Irene,” Sherlock said firmly, “focus.” She turned her oversized green eyes up at him expectantly. “I need your help.”

“Yes, I know.”

“We have to steal something from the Met.”

“Jesus, Sherl, you don’t screw around.” She flopped into a threadbare armchair that Sherlock suspected had been rescued from a rubbish heap. “Bit over the top as a way to prove your affection, though. Couldn’t we just go with the MOMA?”

“It has nothing to do with—” Sherlock shook his head as if to clear it. In his experience women had a tendency to spin stories out of ether, and Irene was no exception. She was a smart girl and capable, but her good sense was marred by a romantic streak. Perhaps he could work it to his advantage? “Someone’s life may be at stake,” he told her.

Irene’s eyebrows went up. “ _Someone?_ You don’t put yourself out for just anyone, Sherlock,” she noted shrewdly. “You sure as hell didn’t fly from London to New York for just anyone. You won’t even do that for me, and we’ve been friends forever.”

Sherlock found ‘forever’ something of a stretch, but he’d known Irene Adler for at least a decade. She’d been in London with a not terribly good production of _Camelot_ , but Sherlock had met her when he caught her shoplifting in a jewelry store on Marylebone High Street. He’d been too busy admiring her audacity to get her in trouble for it, though he’d made certain the three rings she’d palmed were returned. Irene’s idea of returning the favor had been to make Sherlock her pet project.

Now she bounced up from her chair and said, “Sit. I’ll get us something to drink and you’ll tell me all about it.”

Sherlock scanned the available furniture, none of it appealing. The sofa had a distinct sag to its middle and was covered by a crocheted blanket that looked more itchy than homey. The chair was worn enough that Sherlock suspected one could feel the springs driving into his back should he sit there. But there was a small dining table with two straight back chairs against one wall. He decided one of those chairs would do.

Irene returned from what counted as a kitchen with two glasses of red wine, one of which she handed to her guest before taking the seat opposite him at the table. “Start at the beginning. What’s his name?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock told her. “What I need to know is whether this can be done.”

Irene sat back and crossed her arms. “It does matter. If you’re emotionally compromised it could blow everything. Anyway, I won’t help you unless you tell.”

Sherlock gave a huff of impatience. “His name is John, he’s my flatmate, and he’s in trouble because of me.”

“That doesn’t count. How did you meet?”

“I feel like I’m at therapy.”

“It’s kind of like that,” Irene admitted. She leaned forward and rested her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand. “Was it love at first sight?”

“He’s my flatmate, not my boyfriend.”

“But you want him to be your boyfriend.”

“You’re making things up,” Sherlock said.

“You’re not giving me anything to work with,” Irene countered.

“You know everything you need to know.”

‘You must really like him,” said Irene. “You always get defensive about the ones you really like.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I need to know about the museum. You’ve been?”

Irene shrugged. “A couple times. Guys who consider themselves smart or sophisticated or whatever like to take their dates there.”

“Where is Godfrey by the way?” asked Sherlock.

“God that’s, like, three or four months ago.”

“Sorry. I have trouble keeping up.”

“If you were on Facebook, you’d have seen I changed my relationship status.”

“I don’t . . . know how that could be at all relevant, actually.”

Irene snorted with laughter. “Only you, Sherl! Not everything can be relevant; some things are just life.”

Sherlock frowned, not liking the feeling he was being made fun of.

Irene reached over and patted his hand. “Are you sure we shouldn’t just go find you someone for a night or two and skip the museum thing?”

“He’s been kidnapped, Irene.”

“You don’t just like him, you love him,” Irene proclaimed. When Sherlock only gave her a blank stare, she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “You don’t rob museums for anything less than true love.”

“Is that what you do?” Sherlock asked her.

Irene grinned. “This isn’t about me.” She sat back again and said, “We’ll go have a look first thing in the morning.”


	3. Chapter 3

JOHN WAS HOT. Or maybe he was cold. He wasn’t really sure.

Something was touching him, and every place on his body that came into contact with it (and that seemed to be everywhere) was painful. He tried to open his eyes for a better look, but his eyelids didn’t want to comply. So he tried to think instead, but his brain refused to pull together anything coherent.

 _Coming down with something. Flu, maybe_ , he thought. He shivered and slipped farther under the covers.

_Covers. Bed. I’m in bed._

But after a minute or so, he started to feel overheated. And he ached all over. It was as if the sheet were too heavy.

He wished Sherlock would bring him some tea. Then again, drinking tea would mean sitting up, and John wasn’t sure he could do that. He wasn’t even sure he could swallow; his tongue felt dry and thick in his mouth, as if nothing could get past it.

He was cold again, but sweating. And it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. When had he taken his shirt off? He burrowed again, the covers now almost over his head, making it difficult to breathe.

John heard the door open. Maybe Sherlock . . . But no, that wasn’t likely. Sherlock never thought of anyone but himself.

“John?” The voice wasn’t Sherlock’s. Who else was in the flat? “I heard you moving around, John; are you awake?”

Someone was pulling back the blankets, and now John forced his eyes open, only to have the light in the room cause a searing pain in his head.

“There you are,” the man standing above him said; he sounded as if he were speaking to a child.

John thought the man looked familiar. Wind- or Whip- something? Whiskers? That was a silly name. John bit back a giggle.

The man nodded indulgently. “Yes, yes, it’s to be expected.” He pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his suit coat, slipped the ridiculously tiny pen out of the spiral, flipped the notebook open and, after checking his watch, wrote something down.

John shivered again. “Cold?” the man asked. He wrote something else down then bent over to look into John’s eyes, which made John want to laugh again.

The man stood, wrote some more, then said, “I’d like you to try to eat something before your next dose. Can you do that for me?”

Dose? He _was_ sick, then. Was he in hospital? John struggled to sit up, and the man pocketed his notebook and moved to help him.

John’s head spun and the room around him blurred. He blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision. As he focused, John realized he wasn’t in the flat and wasn’t in a hospital; he was in a hotel room.

Something was very wrong.

John tried desperately to think backward, to find the root of the problem. He had been at the flat. He’d been ready for bed, but Sherlock . . .

John looked hard at the man standing beside the bed. Whitcombe.

Charles chuckled and nodded. “Very good,” he said, pulling out the notebook again. “Sorry about the neck; we’ll use your arm next time.”

John put a hand to the side of his neck, searching gingerly until he found the sore spot. “Sherlock . . .” he said, still trying to remember, his voice coming out as a hoarse gasp.

“Gone to New York, I’m afraid,” Charles informed him. “We’ll see if he comes back for you, eh? After all, he never did for me.

“In the meantime, you need to eat,” Charles continued. “You won’t be much use to me otherwise. I’ll be back with some soup.” The notebook went back into the pocket and Charles left the room.

John knew he should leave, though he wasn’t sure how to accomplish that particular feat. He could barely move, and he was so tired. Even as he sat there in the bed he thought he might nod off.

He attempted to shake off the fatigue. He needed to work through it logically. What did he remember and what did he know? Sherlock had gone to shower. Charles had come back to the flat . . . and had evidently stabbed John in the neck with a “dose” of something.

Charles Whitcombe. Chemistry teacher. Former chemistry teacher, that was; what did he do now?

And in the midst of all this Sherlock had gone to New York?

Charles returned carrying a bowl of something steamy, the smell of which caused John’s stomach to do a flip. John was shaking his head before Charles had made it more than two steps into the room.

“Nausea?” Charles asked sharply. He set the bowl on the table beside the bed and pulled out the notebook again. “You, John, are my insurance.”

“Against what?” John asked, his head starting to pound. He wanted to lie down again but didn’t want to make himself any more vulnerable than he already was.

“Mr. Moriarty funded my research with the understanding that I would develop something useful. To him, that is. Which I’ve done, I think; it’s down to the fine tuning.”

John started to laugh, huskily, and this time he couldn’t stop himself, even though it hurt. “I’m the fine tuning.”

“Indeed,” Charles agreed. “Now, if you’re not going to eat, we’ll get on with it.” He crossed to a large desk and picked up a needle and a vial. “If the chemicals are balanced right, this will be one of the fastest addicting street drugs on the market.”

“And Moriarty will be the sole supplier,” John guessed.

“A lucrative enterprise,” said Charles measuring out the amount of liquid in the needle. “I’m going to assume you don’t have Sherlock’s tolerances.”

“No, I imagine not.” A thought pierced the fog clouding John’s brain. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I may not have been able to contact him, John, but I kept tabs. Hold out your arm.”

Of course John didn’t.

“He left you, John. You realize that, don’t you? Just as he did me.”

“If you’d have been braver or smarter, you could have seen him,” said John.

“And he could have come to me. He could even have defended me, stopped his brother from pressing charges. But he didn’t. Because—and you must know it as well as I do—Sherlock Holmes doesn’t put himself out for anyone.”

John was too tired to argue. And even if he hadn’t been, he would have been hard pressed to come up with a defense. He felt the pinch of the needle and started in surprise; he hadn’t noticed Charles was within arm’s reach. Then his body relaxed and whatever he’d been worrying about evaporated.

***

“OKAY, WAIT,” IRENE said as they started up the staircase to the museum’s main entrance. Sherlock obediently stopped walking, and Irene was several steps ahead before she realized it. “I didn’t mean _wait_ ,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “I mean, not literally. More like mentally.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Sherlock told her.

“Of course you don’t. Come on.” She waited for Sherlock to join her and started walking again. “What I was going to say, or really I was going to ask . . . Now look, you’ve got me all confused.”

“You do that all on your own,” said Sherlock.

“You should at least be nice to me if you want my help. Okay, so this guy kidnaps your roommate and says if you want him back you have to steal this . . . whatever it’s called.”

Sherlock held the door for Irene as they entered the Great Hall. “Calyx. The name actually refers to the shape. What we’re looking for is a cup or vase.”

“Mm-hm. But anyway, it doesn’t occur to you to just go find John?”

Sherlock only stared.

“What I’m saying is, your first thought was what? To fly across an ocean and steal a priceless object from a famous museum? Because that’s really . . . I mean, if your first thought is to just give them what they want, that’s . . .”

“That’s what?” Sherlock prompted.

“Devoted.” It being a weekday morning, the museum was far from busy, so there was no wait at the admissions desk. Irene handed Sherlock his ticket and a floor plan and gestured to the left. “Old Greek and Roman stuff is that way.”

Sherlock took her arm and guided her in the opposite direction, winning a smile of approval from Irene. “Wouldn’t do to show any particular interest, would it?” Sherlock asked her. “And on average people are more likely to go to the right.”

“You’ve done this before,” said Irene.

“Not on this scale,” Sherlock admitted grimly.

They were on the verge of exiting the Great Hall when Sherlock’s mobile phone chimed. Thinking it was probably Mycroft, he stopped to check the text message. But it was Lestrade.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Sherlock sighed. Telling Lestrade he was in New York would be folly; the inspector wasn’t as quick witted as Sherlock, but he’d put two and two together when news of the burglary broke. So he answered with a vague _Out of town_.

NEED YOUR HELP.

_Back next week._

TOO LATE. CALL.

Sherlock groaned. “What is it?” Irene asked.

“Someone I consult for,” said Sherlock even as he typed _Later_. Then he took Irene’s arm once more and they entered the galleries.

Sherlock made it a point to stop frequently, despite his itch to rush through and get what he really needed. Normally he would enjoy a museum for its quiet beauty. Museums were good places to go think without too much interruption, and Sherlock enjoyed having beautiful things to look at besides, though he couldn’t be bothered to dedicate any brain space to the history of the objects he was viewing. He only knew ‘calyx’ because he’d looked it up.

Of course having Irene with him made the experience far less quiet. Every now and then she’d exclaim over something (usually some kind of jewelry or a very large piece of art), or she’d giggle about something (generally a nude), and the rest of the time she peppered Sherlock with questions about John.

“Is he handsome?” she asked at one point.

“In a rugged kind of—” Sherlock stopped and scowled at her trick.

“Do you have a picture?”

“Why would I have a picture of my flatmate?”

Irene shrugged. “What does he do?”

“He’s a doctor. He came home from Afghanistan after being wounded and needed a room share.”

“And you were trying to get out from under Mycroft,” Irene conjectured.

“There’s no getting out from under Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered. “But a little distance goes a long way.”

“Still, a doctor,” Irene sighed. “Good with his hands, I bet. Why didn’t you have him fix that cut on your forehead?”

They had finally come around to the Greek and Roman Art exhibit and Sherlock broke free of Irene and her incessant chatter to view the wide variety of bowls, cups and vases displayed in the glass cases. It wasn’t long before he found what he was searching for, though he made it a point to only glance at it and move on quickly.

Irene met him at the far end of the gallery and they made their way upstairs to make a quick circuit before leaving. “It’s all wired to the hilt,” Irene said as they walked down Fifth Avenue. “Even if we get ourselves locked in, the motion detectors and cameras, never mind the security guards . . .”

“There has to be a way,” Sherlock insisted.

Irene laid a hand on his arm. “If there is one, we’ll find it,” she assured him. “Now, when was the last time you ate?”

Sherlock wasn’t sure on that score. Though Irene had tried to convince him to stay at her apartment, based on his assessment of her sofa he’d opted for a hotel. He’d skipped breakfast and gone straight to meet Irene at the museum that morning, had declined anything to eat on the flight from London, hadn’t had anything at the flat before leaving . . .

“If you can’t remember, it’s been too long,” said Irene, giving his arm a tug. “Come on, let’s go get some brain food.”

“Let me call Lestrade first,” Sherlock told her. “Can we stop in this park here?”

“Central Park?” Irene asked.

“Is that what it is?”

“You’ve never heard of it?”

Sherlock squinted at the trees that lined the sidewalk. “Maybe.”

Irene guided him around the museum to where Cleopatra’s Needle stood and found them a vacant bench, but Sherlock didn’t sit. Instead he pulled out his phone and began to pace as he dialed.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade breathed in relief and without preface. “We’re dealing with a nasty one. String of drug overdoses.”

Sherlock wanted to snarl with impatience. “Of what interest is that to me? Or you? Idiot addicts overdose every day.”

“Yes, they do,” Lestrade agreed. “But it’s usually on something we can identify. Whatever these people are using—it’s nothing we’ve ever seen.”

“And?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade sighed. “And we’ve hit the wall in the investigation. We can’t figure out what it is or where it’s coming from.”

“I’m a bit busy at the moment,” Sherlock told him.

“What about John?” Lestrade asked. “He’s a doctor; maybe he could be of help.”

Sherlock felt a lump forming in his throat. “He’s out of town as well.”

“But he was just back last night,” said Lestrade. “I spoke to him before calling you. Have the two of you had some kind of falling out?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, his voice rough.

“Because John made it sound like—”

“No,” Sherlock said again. “We’ve got a lot going on just now.”

“Don’t we all. Don’t suppose you’re interested in some international art heists?” Lestrade asked, half joking.

Sherlock froze and his eyes flashed over to where Irene sat on the bench, absorbed in something she was looking at on her phone. “International art,” he echoed. “Tell me more.”

“What, seriously? The drugs don’t do it for you but the art does?”

“Tell me.”

“Series of hits on large museums. Been keeping it relatively quiet; the museums don’t want anyone to know and the law doesn’t want to encourage anyone else to try. It’s all been Europe and the UK thus far, but our best guess is that New York might be next.”

“Really,” Sherlock mused. “How interesting.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He glanced again at Irene who was watching him now with a quizzical look on her face. “I have to go now, but I’ll be in touch again soon.” He ended the call before Lestrade could say anything more.

Irene stood up and strolled over. “Bad news?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Sherlock. “I have to think about it first. Brain food?”

“Appetite coming back? That’s a good sign.” Irene took Sherlock’s arm and took him in search of lunch.


	4. Chapter 4

JOHN FELT GOOD. He was comfortable and cozy, warm in his bed. He wanted to spend the rest of his life there, curled up under the blankets with nothing to bother him. He imagined he could feel his heart and his breath slackening, and it was as if he had begun to exist in slow motion. John started to wonder whether he might stop aging altogether. _Wouldn’t that be something_ , he thought. _I’ve found the fountain of youth._

He was drifting in that dreamy space between asleep and awake, watching vivid colors roll like a tide behind his eyelids. He was basking in brilliant blue and yellow and thinking of summer on a beach when a voice whispered in his ear, “John? How are you feeling?”

John stretched, languid and lazy as a feline, using up the last bit of energy he had. He allowed his eyes to open a bit, just enough to see the man leaning over him.

“Charming,” Charles murmured. “I can see what he loves about you.”

John had no idea what this man was talking about; he wasn’t even sure he was hearing all the words being said. But the low intensity of his voice and his breath against John’s ear were nice. John closed his eyes again, prepared to sail back into sleep.

A hand touched the side of his face, and John curled his toes reflexively; he felt as if he were an instrument whose strings had just been plucked, the sensation vibrating through him, and he pushed his face into the hand the way a cat might butt its head against someone to encourage petting.

“What I could do to you,” Charles whispered. “I would glue you to this mattress. How much would he hate that?”

John could make no sense of what this person was saying but figured (as much as he could figure anything through the static in his brain) it probably didn’t matter much one way or another.

A second voice caused John to open his eyes again, if only a fraction. “Let him be, Charles,” this second person said, and John was sorry when the hand on his cheek slipped away, leaving his face suddenly cold. “We can’t damage the merchandise.”

The second man took a seat in a chair beside the bed. “I hope for your sake and his that we’ve made some progress. It won’t do to have our customers dying. Makes it so difficult to keep business in the black.”

Was this man talking to him? John didn’t think so, but he liked the rise and fall of his voice, all singsong like a strange lullaby.

But now the man was leaning in as if to speak to John after all. “Not that I have any particular love for you,” he said. “But! Today the role of Sherlock’s heart is played by John Watson, and I intend to make good on my threat.”

“Sherlock will be serving a prison term before long,” Charles put in dismissively.

Moriarty smiled coldly. “I’m sure the idea makes you feel better. But don’t count any chickens yet. I, for one, would be quite satisfied to see how much losing John would pain him. I’ve always been a romantic that way.” He placed a hand on John’s forehead. “Burning yet?”

John closed his eyes again. He was tired; the burble of all the chatter was lulling him to sleep.

“The euphoria is cycling down,” said Charles. “He’ll sleep for a bit, then wake up in need of more.”

“Sorry to be a buzz kill, John,” Moriarty murmured as he stood. He turned to Charles. “And we expect him to live?”

“The respiratory depression is still more than I’d like, but I’m keeping a close eye on it.”

“Is that what you were doing when I got here.” Moriarty considered the slumbering figure for a moment. “If Sherlock does go to prison, I’ll let you keep this one as a souvenir. Make up for lost time.” He strolled to the door and stopped. “But no taste testing, Charles. I need him unspoiled a bit longer.”

***

SHERLOCK STARED DUBIOUSLY at the “artisan” sandwich in front of him. “What’s on it?” he asked again.

Irene sighed. “Just eat it.”

“I’m not—” Sherlock’s phone rang. Mycroft. He declined the call, but realized something as he did so. “I do have a picture.”

Irene swallowed the bit of sandwich she’d been chewing. “What?”

“The one that pops up when he calls,” Sherlock explained, scrolling through his list of contacts. “Here.”

Irene took the phone and regarded the image. “Aw, he looks sweet. Kind of like a puppy.”

“He’d be flattered,” Sherlock told her, taking back the phone.

“No wet nose, I hope,” said Irene.

Sherlock was lifting the top slice of bread for a better look at the contents of his sandwich. “Uh . . . no. Are those grapes?”

“Maybe,” Irene admitted. “Or . . . cranberries?”

Sherlock closed the sandwich. “He has a girlfriend.”

Irene’s face grew long. “Oh, sweetie, he isn’t—?” Sherlock shook his head, and Irene slapped the table. “We have to go out tonight.”

“What?” asked Sherlock in alarm. “No. I have too much to sort through, to think about.”

“And I have a show tonight. I was going to force you to come, but I’ll let you use the time for whatever you need to do, so long as you join me and a couple of my friends afterward.”

Sherlock blanched. “I’d rather go to the show.” Which was saying something since, as good an actress and singer as Irene was, she had a tendency to get attached to dreadful productions.

But she was shaking her head. “You need to socialize. We’ll rescue your flatmate, don’t worry. But you need to take a break. A short one,” Irene was quick to add when she saw Sherlock about to protest. “Just an hour,” she promised, “unless you end up wanting to stay longer.”

“Then I should get back to the hotel now,” said Sherlock, pushing away from the table, his food untouched.

Irene sighed. “I’m getting you a bag for that.”

Sherlock made a moue of distaste. “I won’t eat it.”

“Then I’m getting _me_ a bag for that. Poor actresses have to eat.”

Sherlock laughed. Irene was far from poor, though she put up a good front. It wouldn’t do to advertise her light fingers by living beyond what, for all intents and purposes, counted as her means. Though Sherlock privately thought she should at least spring for better furniture.

Irene got her bag and Sherlock saw her into a cab before opting to walk a bit to aid his thinking. He had much to work out before Irene strong-armed him into fraternizing with her friends, and the sooner he unknotted things the sooner he’d have John back at his side. Which was where the good doctor surely belonged.

***

JOHN FELT AWFUL. He felt dry despite the copious amounts of sweat that covered him and hot despite the shivers that wracked his body. Pulling air into his lungs seemed like a Herculean effort, and his heart was kicking like a snared rabbit. John pictured the lapin ripping his insides apart with the claws of its thumping rear feet. He imagined the blood bubbling up in his throat, dripping from his nose, ears, mouth. He needed surgery, he realized. The rabbit had to be extracted; he just needed a knife.

John struggled to sit up but it only made the rabbit kick harder. He collapsed back onto the pillows, wondering what it would be like when the rabbit finally tunneled through. He watched his chest move up and down in its desperate attempt to get enough breath and waited for the moment the claws and teeth burst out.

 _I’m in a horror movie_ , John thought. _This is the part when you know something bad is about to happen but there’s nothing you can do to prevent it._ The shivers began to come harder then, bordering on convulsions.

_Rabbit is coming . . ._

The door to the room opened and That Man (as John had started to think of him) entered. That Man had a tray bearing a glass of water and bowl of soup. Always soup. Not that John was ever hungry.

“My God, John,” Charles said as he set the tray beside the bed. “You _are_ suffering, aren’t you?” He helped John sit up then picked up the glass of water and inserted a straw. “Drink.”

John didn’t want to, but he leaned forward to sip from the straw while That Man held the glass. The rabbit settled a bit. Sensing victory, John gulped more.

“Not too much too fast,” Charles warned, “else it’ll only come back up.”

John slowed down; the cold of the water was beginning to curl in his stomach like a python. _Snakes eat rabbits, don’t they?_

Charles set the glass back on the tray and put a hand on the back of John’s neck, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Better?”

John was still shaking, though not as violently. His head was filled with a steady thrumming sound and his eyes felt sticky. He was sure he’d be sick to his stomach if only there were anything in his stomach besides the water.

Charles kept his hand at John’s nape, and John eyed him with dislike. “You don’t care for me much,” observed Charles. “I wonder how I could change your mind.”

A fresh wave of spasms shook John’s body.

“Do you think you can eat something?” Charles asked.

John’s eyes darted to the soup.

“Here, lean back and let’s give it a try.” Charles pulled the bed pillows up to give John something comfortable to rest against. Then he turned as if to grab the bowl of soup, but paused when John grimaced. “Rather eat something else?”

John had only one clear and coherent thought. _That Man is going to try to feed me. Or trick me. Or both._ In the core of his being, John felt this was important to hold on to, this deep mistrust of the man sitting next to him, regardless of all apparent solicitousness on That Man’s part. For now he only shook his head slightly, which caused his vision to swim and the room to rock around him. Then his eyes traveled to the desk where the vial and needle waited.

“You want your medicine,” Charles said knowingly. He smiled and his eyes flashed in a way that made the hair on John’s arms and neck stand on end.

“I’d like my shirt back, too,” John answered hoarsely.

Charles’s smile widened. “What use could you have for that? But as for the medicine—what would you be willing to give for it?”

The rabbit was kicking fiercely now, and John suffered a moment of confusion as his brain called up an old memory of someone from his army brigade, a small and anxious man they’d nicknamed Fiver. In any questionable situation, Fiver had always been the first to raise a red flag, and John was sure this would have been just such a time.

“Money?”

Charles shook his head. “I was thinking of something more personal.”

John didn’t understand; he had nothing personal to give. “What do you want?”

“I should lock the door,” Charles said suddenly, and in his mind John could hear Fiver practically screaming in his ear.

_Fiver’s dead, remember? You dragged him off the field yourself._

Charles returned from securing the door and instead of returning to the chair he’d been sitting in, he perched himself on the edge of the bed.

“What do you want?” John asked again.

“What I want is to fuck you from here ‘til next Tuesday, but Moriarty would string me up by my balls if I tried. So I’ll settle for a kiss.”

The snake in John’s stomach slithered and his eyes drifted again to the desk, but he was already shaking his head. “No. I’m not going to kiss you.”

“You don’t have to,” Charles said, his tone as reasonable as any man negotiating a sale. “I’ll kiss you.”

John continued to shake his head. _That Man’s a lunatic._

Charles heaved a sigh and stood. “I’ll get what I want in the end, you know. You might as well close your eyes and pretend it’s Sherlock.”

The name rang a bell, though John had trouble placing it. His girlfriend? Didn’t sound like a girl’s name . . . _Flatmate_ , he recalled. But why would he kiss his flatmate?

Charles was at the desk, measuring out a considerable quantity of liquid from the vial into the needle. He returned to the edge of the bed and said in a mock whisper, “It won’t be as bad as you think.”

John felt the pinch and almost immediately all the creatures inside him grew quiet and still. He was rising up as if on a wave, and then there was a mouth on his, hot and insistent. But it no longer mattered; John relaxed into it, allowing That Man to do all the work. John’s limbs were already growing heavy, he was slipping under the wave now, and it swept over him, washing away all anxiety.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My least favorite scene in the entire series, so apologies in advance for some of the cringe-worthiness. I'd remove it entirely, but there is underlying plot structure here.

SHERLOCK HAD LESTRADE fax all the information regarding the art thefts to the hotel, which of course served to set Lestrade on alert. “You’re _in_ New York?”

“Yes,” was as much as Sherlock was willing to say.

“Is John with you?”

“No.”

“You don’t know where he is, do you?” Lestrade suddenly realized.

For a split second Sherlock considered telling Lestrade: _He’s with a man named Charles Whitcombe, and you should go find them because this man is connected to Jim Moriarty and I think something terrible is going to happen if it hasn’t already._ But this statement smacked of paranoia; Sherlock needed more facts before he’d be willing to voice such a sentiment. And maybe, just a little, _he_ wanted to be the one to save John, set things right. So Sherlock remained silent, which was all the answer Lestrade required.

In the end, Lestrade had agreed to send the report, and Sherlock had spent the better part of the afternoon piecing together the trail of the thief (or thieves). The Dulwich had been hit first, the British Museum being too large a target one must think, though the National Gallery in Edinburgh had evidently not posed a problem. Nor had Paris’s l’Orangerie. Or the Swiss National Museum in Zurich. An impressive list.

Included in Lestrade’s notes were riddles left at the scenes that had, in hindsight, indicated the next city to be hit, though which museum in those cities seemed to remain a mystery. But Sherlock saw clearly now how Lestrade could conjecture that New York would be next. (And also why Lestrade had been so desperate for help, given that riddles were something of a specialty for Sherlock, and it was obvious Lestrade and his team had thus far not been fast enough or smart enough to stop the perpetrator(s).)

The question now was whether Moriarty was behind these heists and whether Sherlock was walking into a trap.

Moriarty had gone to great lengths to engage Sherlock’s interest before—flattering, Sherlock supposed, in a way. He was still combing the stack of faxes for useful tidbits of information when Irene knocked at his hotel room door.

“Ready?” she asked, then frowned. “You can’t wear that.”

“What’s wrong with it?” he asked automatically. They were the same clothes he’d been wearing earlier in the day. Then he noticed Irene’s dress—what there was of it. “What are you wearing? A tea towel?”

Irene did a little spin in her low cut, dark green mini. “Like it?”

“There should be at least four more centimeters of material on it in every direction.”

Irene crossed her arms and looked at him reprovingly. “You can’t go around saying things like that to people. You’ll hurt their feelings.”

“Did I hurt your feelings?” Sherlock asked.

“No, but only because I know better.” She strode to the closet and began to pick through the clothes Sherlock had hanging there, eventually extracting a shirt in a dusky purple that had a bit of sheen to the fabric. “It’ll have to do,” she said as she held it out to him.

“Irene, really, I have too much to—”

She held up a hand. “You’ve been at it all afternoon and evening. You need to take a break. And my friends are dying to meet you.”

“One hour?” he asked.

“Not counting travel time,” Irene told him.

Sherlock took the shirt and slipped into the bathroom to change. “No need to be modest,” Irene teased.

“I think your dress makes it clear how you feel about modesty,” Sherlock replied.

“This is how we dress for going to clubs,” Irene informed him. “They’ll love you no matter what you wear, but some of us have to work harder.”

“We who? Americans or women?” Sherlock asked as he emerged.

“Both.” Irene stepped over to undo one more of his buttons, but Sherlock swatted her away.

“You should at least have a jacket,” he told her.

Irene made a derisive sound. “Too much of a pain to keep track of. Carrying a bag is bad enough. Come on; everyone will be waiting.”

“Fashionably late?”

“There’s late and then there’s just plain rude. Come _on_.”

Sherlock allowed Irene to lead him out of the room and downstairs to one of the myriad of taxicabs that choked New York. His only thought was to get through the hour with as little effort as possible, maybe by nursing a drink and not saying much. He was so absorbed in this plan he almost didn’t notice when the cab stopped and Irene got out, forcing her to lean in and hiss, “Sherlock!”

“Bend over any farther and you’ll be charged with public indecency,” Sherlock warned her as he got out. He paused. “Do they have that here?”

“Oh, stop,” said Irene. She took his hand and flashed a smile at the large man standing by the entrance. “Fresh catch, Rainy?” he asked.

“Old friend. Visiting from London.”

The man’s eyebrows went up and he gave Sherlock an appraising look. “Have an accent?”

“No, but you do,” said Sherlock.

The man laughed and pulled the door open. “Have fun.”

As Irene towed Sherlock inside, he said, “And you were worried _I’d_ be rude?”

Irene ignored him. “There they are!” She stood on her tiptoes—which didn’t do her much good, given how tiny she was and the fact that her heels already had her pitched about as high up as she could possibly go—and waved.

Sherlock followed her gaze and balked.

Irene turned to him with a quizzical frown. “What’s wrong?”

“What is that?”

“Not what, who,” said Irene with exasperation. “That’s Tamzen; she works wardrobe for our show. Next to her is Jonah. And the last one is Demetria.”

“That’s a woman.” It was a statement, not a question.

“She identifies as one, yes. She’s a drag queen. She’s doing a show here tonight; maybe we can stay and watch.”

“Fascinating.”

Irene tugged his arm. “Let me introduce you properly.” She guided him through the crowd to the circular booth her friends occupied.

“Hi guys! This is Sherlock.”

Tamzen regarded him with frank curiosity, Jonah kept his eyes focused somewhere toward the center of the tabletop, and Demetria said, “Mm-hm,” and patted the seat beside her. “We’ve heard all about you. Come sit over here by me.”

Irene gave him a little shove, leaving Sherlock very little choice but to comply so that his friend could slide in on his other side. He was well and truly trapped.

“What do pretty little British boys like to drink?” Demetria asked.

“Tea mostly,” said Sherlock.

Demetria laughed and leaned around to address Irene. “He’s funny, Rainy.”

Sherlock was studying the drag queen’s makeup: thickly applied, sea green eye shadow; long false eyelashes; small rhinestones stuck along the lash line; hot pink lipstick and matching fingernails; and a long auburn wig. “It must take ages to put all that on,” he said.

“But not nearly as long to get it off,” Demetria told him with a wink. "Push up, Jonah, I got a show to go do.”

Tamzen pulled Jonah over to let Demetria out of the booth. “Her show’s really good,” said Tamzen as the drag queen stalked off, stopping now and again to chat with people in the crowd.

But Sherlock was eyeing Jonah, who continued to stare at the table. “Is he all right?”

Tamzen rolled her eyes. “Just high.”

“Was I that bad?” Sherlock asked Irene.

She laughed. “Worse! But more fun than Jonah is when he’s had a hit.”

Tamzen snorted. “Jonah’s not fun even when he’s not high.” She stood up just as Sherlock’s phone rang, not that he could hear it over the general noise in the room, but he felt it buzz. “I’m gonna go get a drink. Want anything? _Tea?_ ”

Sherlock shook his head as he pulled the phone out. Mycroft again. He was either up very late or very early. A minute after he declined the call, a text message popped up.

NYC?

_Visiting Irene._

JOHN?

_Don’t know._

???

_Where he is._

There was no immediate response and Sherlock was about to put his phone away when a final text chimed.

LOOKING IN TO IT

Sherlock felt his heart pick up speed. He could not recall a time when he was happier to have such a suspicious, nosy, and overbearing older brother.

Tamzen set a glass of beer in front of Irene and another, darker one in front of Sherlock. “I guessed Guinness. That’s, like, European or something, right?”

“Irish,” Sherlock replied absently.

The crowd around them got louder; Demetria had mounted the stage at the far end of the room. Suddenly Sherlock felt overheated. He leaned over to Irene. “Need some air.”

“It hasn’t been an hour,” she said.

“Feels like eternity.”

Irene rolled her eyes and held a finger up to Tamzen to indicate “a minute.” Then she slid out of the booth to let Sherlock up.

“There he is!” Demetria said from the stage. “Sherlie, sweetheart, come say something to these boys!”

Sherlock was very aware that most of the attention in the small and crowded room was now focused on him.

“Come on,” Demetria insisted, then added as an aside to the crowd, “He’s waiting for the written invitation.”

Sherlock looked to Irene who shrugged. He looked back at Demetria and wondered at his chances of escaping, but something about her expression told him there was more to this than a show. So, like a man climbing the scaffold, Sherlock walked to the foot of the dais. “Come on,” Demetria said again, offering her hand to help him up. Once he was standing next to her, she snaked an arm around his waist and pointed to a couple of men in the crowd. “I see you two girls eyeing him, but let me just tell you right now this one’s mine. You gotta import your own!”

As the crowd laughed, Demetria whispered into Sherlock’s ear. “I suggest you go out the back; I don’t think those two are here for the view.”

Sherlock darted a look in the direction of the men Demetria had teased and was forced to agree with her assessment. “Thank you,” he murmured.

“Any friend of Rainy’s. I’ll find a creative way to bill you later.” To the crowd she said, “While Sherlie slips into something more comfortable, I’m gonna sing a little—”

Sherlock pushed through the split in the sparkling blue drapes at the back of the stage and wondered how he would get around to Irene, but he soon found he needn’t have worried. She was already waiting in the wings. “Who are they?” she asked.

“No idea.”

“Think they’re on to the museum plot?”

Sherlock shook his head, not in the sense of a negative answer so much as to emphasize that he didn’t know. He took Irene’s hand and together they weaved their way through the backstage and exited into the alley. Once there, however, Sherlock was at a loss for direction, so Irene steered him along to the street that ran behind the club, turned them sharply to the right, and eased them into the tangled tide that was New York’s nightlife.

“Your friends are . . .” Sherlock began.

“Interesting?” Irene supplied.

“No, not at all, actually.”

Irene sighed as they wove their way through, past and around people on the sidewalk. “Tamzen is usually more fun, but lately she’s too busy being angry at Jonah for not kicking his drug habit . . .” She darted a glance at her companion. “Sound familiar?”

Sherlock kept his eyes ahead. “It’s like going through a tunnel, Irene. You have to get all the way in before you can start to come out.”

“Or he could just have taken a different route all together.”

“Doesn’t he have an older brother you can tattle to?”

Irene stopped walking. “If I hadn’t, you’d probably be dead by now!”

Sherlock rounded as people continued to stream around them on the sidewalk. “Conjecture at best. Mycroft told Mum, and you can imagine how upset she was. It was an absolute mess.”

“But aren’t you better for it?” Irene asked.

“The ends don’t justify the means.”

Irene snorted. “They do for you when it’s something _you_ want! You can’t have one set of rules for you and one for everybody else.”

“Why not? I’m different from most people.”

“Yes, Sherl, you’re a beautiful snowflake,” Irene practically sneered. “In a world full of snowflakes. And anarchy on one person’s part will not bring order to everyone else.”

“You sound like my brother. And I don’t want to bring order to anyone. I just want to be distracted.”

“From what?”

“Anything. Everything. The world is boring, most people are boring.”

Irene started walking again. “And am I supposed to feel honored by your presence? I’m sure your flatmate is so flattered that you tolerate him on a daily basis.”

“He tolerates me more than I do him, I suppose,” said Sherlock as he fell into step beside her.

“We’ll have to start a club,” Irene muttered.

They walked in silence for a while, Irene turning corners now and again, though she was careful to keep where there were a significant number of people. Then Sherlock said, “He’d have done the same thing, I think.”

“Hm?”

“Told Mycroft.”

“Yet you love him anyway.”

Sherlock was quiet for a minute before offering, in the hopes of amusing his friend, “He threw a book at me.”

Irene was agreeably startled. “What?!”

“John threw a book at me the other night.”

“Huh! I’m sure he had a good reason. Is that where you got the cut?”

“No, I fell out of a boat. Or, to be perfectly truthful, an angry young woman tipped me out of a boat.”

“And she probably had a good reason, too. In water?”

“That is usually where people ride in boats, yes.”

“But you can’t swim,” said Irene.

“John pulled me out. He’s useful that way.”

“And you’re only here to see me because I’m useful in a way, too,” Irene said bitterly, then added with some reluctance, “But I’ve figured out how to do it.”

“How to do what?” Sherlock asked.

“Steal the thingy.”

“The calyx?”

“Whatever. We’ll need some stuff first.”

“Such as?”

“You’ll need less expensive clothes, for one thing. Tamzen will help us with that.”

Sherlock sighed. “Irene, I should tell you there’s a pretty fair likelihood this whole thing is a setup.”

“Like a trap?” Irene asked.

“I have reason to believe it might be,” he acknowledged.

“But you want to do it anyway.” Her tone was flat.

“I owe it to John. If there’s any chance . . .” But Sherlock couldn’t find the words to finish his thought.

He didn’t need to; Irene understood. She nodded. “Okay, I’m still in.”

“And where are we going now?” Sherlock asked her.

“The theater. Like I said, you need some clothes.”

***

TAMZEN WAS WAITING backstage in the overcrowded cubbyhole that passed for the wardrobe department. “What are you looking for?” she asked Irene.

“Something academic.” Irene looked to Sherlock. “If you can’t beat ‘em, right?”

Tamzen foraged into the densely packed racks of clothing and returned with a brown tweed suit replete with leather patches at the suit coat’s elbows.

“It’s awful,” said Sherlock.

“It’s perfect,” said Irene. “Almost.”

Tamzen nodded. “The patches are a bit much; I’ll take them off.” She held up the hanger, looking between the suit and Sherlock. “Need to take in the waist and let out the cuffs. Here, try the jacket.”

Sherlock took it and shrugged it on. “A little tight.”

Tamzen walked around him. “I’ll let it out a bit too.” She turned to Irene. “And for you?”

“Oh, I’ve got mine covered.”

Tamzen eyed them speculatively as Sherlock slipped off the suit coat. “Should I ask what you’re up to?”

“Better not,” Irene told her. “Where’s Jonah?”

Tamzen only shrugged.

“You left him alone?” Sherlock asked with surprise.

Tamzen glared. “What do you care?”

“I don’t.”

Tamzen only stared.

“Thanks, Tam,” said Irene, grabbing Sherlock’s arm. “When can you have it done?”

Continuing to eye Sherlock, Tamzen said, “Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Don’t you need measurements or something?” asked Sherlock.

“I’ve got your measure,” Tamzen told him.

“Tam’s been doing this long enough she can usually eyeball it,” Irene added swiftly, giving Sherlock’s arm a tug.

From down the hall came the screech of the stage door opening. “Tam? You here?”

Tamzen heaved a sigh and looked again at Sherlock. “There he is. Feel better now?” Then she called, “Back here, Jonah!”

They listened to the stumble and shuffle of Jonah’s feet as he made his way to wardrobe, followed by another sound so quiet it would have been missed if there had been any other noise.

“He’s not alone,” said Sherlock.

Jonah wandered in, blinking, head swinging as if he were in a place he’d never been before. “Hey . . . This the Brit?”

Sherlock took in Jonah’s constricted pupils. “You’ve had another hit.”

Jonah grinned stupidly. “Yeah.”

“And are the men by the back door your dealers?” Sherlock asked him.

“Nah, they’re more Brits. It’s an invasion!” Jonah started to laugh, and Tamzen gave a small growl of disgust as she threw the suit onto a worktable. “Hey, that’s pretty slick,” Jonah said suddenly. “They told me not to tell, but you guessed anyway. They said you were smart.”

Sherlock exchanged a glance with Irene. “Did they say anything else?”

Jonah appeared to think about it for a moment then shook his head. “No. Or maybe. I don’t really remember.” He started laughing again. “Shh,” he said between giggles. “They’ll know you know!”

And now from down the hall came the sound of footsteps.

“We can’t go out the front,” said Irene, “it would set the alarms off.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock told her, “I think I know what they want.”


	6. Chapter 6

JOHN WASN’T ENTIRELY sure he was still alive.

It was a very strange feeling, but not a foreign one; he’d undergone a similar sensation after being wounded in Afghanistan. He supposed he’d been on medicine then, too.

Everything floated. The bed he was on swam laps around the room. It was simultaneously lulling and nauseating, like having an illness you wanted to sleep off.

He was sweating again and suddenly had the urge to take a shower. Yes, and put on clean clothes and climb into a freshly made bed. He even got so far as to roll himself to the edge of the mattress, though he couldn’t figure out how to get his feet under him from there. All he’d managed to do was get himself cocooned in the sheet. It was like a terrible trap; the more he tried to work his way back out of it, the tighter it held him.

And then he was falling. He hit the carpet with a thud. But at least he was free of the sheet.

 _Butterfly!_ John thought with a sense of triumph.

The door opened. “John!” exclaimed Charles, “What are you doing down there?”

“Metamorphosis.”

“What? Goodness,” Charles said, reaching down. “Let me help you up.”

“Shower,” murmured John as Charles pulled him upright.

“You can hardly stand.”

“I want a shower.” Louder, but the words were slurred.

“All right,” Charles told him placatingly, “but you’ll need some help.”

“And clean clothes.” But John was already starting to droop.

“I think a bath might be better. If you can manage not to drown.” Charles smiled as he walked John toward the bathroom. “Probably shouldn’t go in alone.”

***

THE FOOTSTEPS WERE soft but distinct in the silence of the theater. Even Jonah had ceased to giggle, his eyes large and round as he observed the grim expressions on the others’ faces.

Then the quiet was sharply broken by the chiming of Sherlock’s phone. He pulled it from his pocket and frowned, then blanched, staring at the screen for a long moment before stowing the device once more as the two men rounded the corner.

They were, of course, the two who had been at the club earlier, both of them burly though only one was tall. The shorter one showed signs of having had his nose broken, either once very badly, or more likely several times. His head was shaved; the taller one had short, dark hair. Both had mean, dark eyes. And, in Sherlock’s opinion, both looked utterly ridiculous in their American clothing, like terrible caricatures of what they supposed tough American men must be.

“You’re here to take me home,” said Sherlock.

To his surprise it was the shorter one who answered; for some reason he’d assumed the taller man would be in charge. “Mr. Mycroft asked us to, yeah.”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed.

The short man appeared unconvinced. “That’s it?”

Irene was just as astounded. “You’re leaving?”

“I have to, I’m afraid,” Sherlock told her.

“The phone?” she asked.

He sighed and fished it from his pocket, showed her the image that had been sent as a text message from an unknown number. “What do you see?”

“Your friend asleep in a bathtub? A nice one. And they gave him bubbles, so it can’t be all bad.” She was trying to be lighthearted about it, though she knew her efforts were weak at best.

“Look closer. _Think_ about what you’re seeing.”

Irene squinted at the phone. “Maybe he’s drugged?” she asked, glancing in Jonah’s direction.

Sherlock froze; it was a possibility he hadn’t considered. But he resisted the temptation to look again. He could do that later, look and think about all of it later. After all, the flight back to London was a long one.

“What about the angle?” he asked Irene.

She looked again then frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know. What about it?”

“Whoever took this picture is in the bathtub with him.”

Irene did a double take. “Really? Maybe they used a zoom.”

“Those aren’t John’s toes,” Sherlock said, pointing.

“Oh.” She paused to absorb this. “What kind of weirdo takes a bath with the person he’s kidnapped?”

“Charles Whitcombe.” Sherlock looked again to the men his brother had sent. “I’ll need to go pack.”

The shorter man shook his head. “We took the liberty of doing that for you, Mr. Sherlock. Your bag is already checked in for our flight.”

“Mycroft always did believe in being efficient,” Sherlock murmured.

Tamzen spoke up then. “Does this mean you don’t need the suit?”

Irene locked eyes with Sherlock. “He has to go back to London.” When she moved to hug him goodbye, she whispered in his ear, “I know why you won’t let him bandage your cut.”

Sherlock looked at her, then quickly away. “Visit?” he asked her as he stepped over to join the two men.

“Soon,” Irene promised.

“Dude, is he, like, a spy or something?” Jonah asked after Sherlock and the men had departed.

“Don’t be stupid, Jonah,” Tamzen snapped as she picked up the tweed suit and went to rehang it. “He’s obviously just minor nobility trying to see the world except his family won’t let him go anywhere. Why else would he need a disguise?”

“’Cause he’s a spy,” Jonah said. “Spies wear disguises.”

“Which one of us is right?” Tamzen asked Irene.

“The truth is somewhere in the middle,” Irene answered with a laugh. “But I’m sure your powers of deduction would impress him! Now,” she added to Tamzen, “do you have some fake glasses I could borrow? Something like a librarian?”

***

THERE WERE FEW things in the world worse than having a surfeit of information and no way to act upon it. Particularly when one added a long flight to the equation.  
What did he know? Sherlock went through the list again and again as he pretended to sleep, his eyes closed and head turned to the shuttered window. John was being kept at a nice hotel, probably in or near London. And upon reflection, it was likely Irene’s speculation was correct, that John was being drugged to keep him submissive. But what John was being submitted _to_ . . . Sherlock pushed it aside. He had few facts on that particular matter, aside from the clear indication that he’d shared a bath with someone.

 _Charles_ , Sherlock told himself. _You know it was Charles._

He tried to reason that perhaps Charles had only been making sure John didn’t drown. But that only made him want to laugh at his own self-delusional naiveté.

Sherlock had briefly considered forwarding the image to Mycroft to help his brother track down John’s exact whereabouts, but he’d found himself unable to go that far. And in the end, it didn’t matter. Because when the plane landed and Sherlock switched his phone off airplane mode, a text from Mycroft was waiting for him:

TERRACE SUITE AT THE DORCHESTER

Well and good. Sherlock just needed to stop at the flat first.

***

JOHN’S ROOM WAS neat and sparse, evidence of his army training. His bed was made and all surfaces were clear of clutter. The only item out of place was John’s bag, which he’d left beside his bed—the battered weekender that he’d traveled to Weald House with, the one that still contained his clothes . . . and his gun.

Sherlock opened the bag and meant to go straight to the bottom, the most likely place for the gun to be given its weight. But he paused when he touched something smooth and cool, roughly the size of a book though not as thick. Extracting it, he found a framed photo of himself, taken during a beach holiday when he was eight. Sherlock’s mother had left the picture for John, but John had indicated to Sherlock he didn’t want it. So why was it in John’s bag?

 _No time_ , Sherlock reminded himself. He set the photo aside and went for the gun.

Just as he’d expected, a room key was waiting for him at the Dorchester, and Sherlock once again silently thanked his brother for accommodating his needs. Sherlock supposed he should do something nice for Mycroft, and if he got through this without ending up dead or in prison for murder, he’d be sure to show his appreciation. Maybe he’d actually agree to help Mycroft with something . . .

The Terrace Suite was on the ninth floor and had a large entry hall that opened into a sitting room and separate dining room that gave onto the terrace from which the room derived its name. The terrace in turn overlooked Hyde Park.

Charles always had done things in style.

The spacious bedroom—the one with an attached bath that featured a spa tub big enough for two—was also off the entry, to the right. Though he mostly wanted to break it down, Sherlock paused to listen at the door before opening it. Sounds . . . indistinct murmuring of some kind.

Turned out the bedroom door was unlocked anyway.

Charles sat beside the bed with his back to the door (foolish man), and he was leaning over John, who was giggling in the way a person does when they are drunk or extremely tired or both.

“Shh,” Charles said, though he was also chuckling. “You’ll get me in trouble.”

John sighed and rolled over as if to sleep.

It took every modicum of Sherlock’s willpower to keep him from putting a bullet in Charles right then. But Sherlock had a measure of curiosity in him about all that had transpired, and he was determined to sate that before his bloodlust. So as Charles leaned farther forward, Sherlock stepped up and placed the muzzle of the gun at the nape of Charles’s neck. “I’d say you’re already in trouble.”

Charles froze, but maddeningly he also laughed. “You never struck me as the type to play jealous lover, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grabbed the collar of Charles’s shirt and hauled him from the chair, turning him so that they were face to face. He pushed Charles back against the chest-of-drawers and put the gun’s barrel against the hollow of Charles’s throat, and the amusement in the older man’s face died. “Tell me what you did to him,” Sherlock said evenly, “and if I don’t like the answer, I’m going to shoot your throat out.”

Charles paled. “Nothing!” he said. But the wicked twinkle returned to his eyes. “Nothing he didn’t enjoy, that is.”

“Wrong answer.” Sherlock cocked the gun.

“Sherlock, stop!”

Sherlock scowled and looked to the doorway. There stood Lestrade, and behind him Sargent Donovan. “Who called you?” Sherlock demanded, though he already knew the answer.

“Anonymous tip,” said Lestrade. “Look, you can’t shoot him,” he went on when Sherlock showed no sign of lowering his weapon.

“Watch me.”

“I told you he should be locked up,” said Donovan.

“Go see to the doctor,” Lestrade told her.

“Don’t touch him!” Sherlock snarled, stopping Donovan in her tracks. She looked uncertainly between the man in the bed and the one holding the gun and clearly decided she was better off staying where she stood.

“He needs medical attention, Sherlock,” said Lestrade.

“Sargent Donovan does not qualify,” Sherlock countered.

“Fine. Sally, call for a medic.”

Donovan eyed Sherlock for a moment to see if he would protest. Then she used Lestrade’s directive as an excuse to slip out of the bedroom to place the call.

“Why don’t you put the gun down,” Lestrade suggested.

“He’s the source of your new drug,” Sherlock informed him. “He works for Moriarty.”

“Why don’t you tell him the real reason you’re so angry?” Charles taunted.

“Just put the gun down,” repeated Lestrade.

From over in the bed, John began to mumble something in his sleep.

“He’s not worth it,” Lestrade insisted.

“He’s not, but John is,” said Sherlock.

“Then shoot me,” Charles told him. “But you can’t and you won’t until you know everything. Isn’t that right?” Charles’s lips stretched into a nasty smile. “The problem with knowing, Sherlock, is that you can’t stop knowing something once you’ve learned it. And do you really want to be reminded of it every time you look at him?”

Lestrade moved fast, but not fast enough to stop Sherlock from breaking Charles’s nose with the butt of the gun.

“Jesus!” Lestrade exclaimed, pulling Sherlock back by the shoulder and holding him there. Charles had crumpled to the floor, his hand to his nose, though it did nothing to keep the copious amounts of blood from falling to the cream-colored carpet.

Donovan appeared in the doorway. “What’s the freak done now?” Her gaze fell on Charles and she smirked with satisfaction. “That’s assault, you know.”

Sherlock wasn’t the least bit satisfied. Breaking Charles’s nose hadn’t been near enough. But Lestrade had wrenched the gun from his hand, so the best Sherlock would have been able to do would be to kick Charles, if only Lestrade weren’t preventing him.

Charles, meanwhile, was laughing, in and wet and bloody kind of way, which only served to infuriate Sherlock further.

“Stop! Just stop!” Lestrade was shouting. He was directly in front of Sherlock now, utilizing all his strength to keep Sherlock away from Charles. It struck the inspector that he’d never seen Sherlock this angry, or angry at all for that matter. Didn’t the man have a middle ground? There had to be something between dispassionate and homicidal, didn’t there?

“Medics are here,” Donovan announced.

Sherlock stepped back abruptly, turning his attention to the bed.

“Better,” Lestrade sighed. He motioned the waiting emergency workers forward and indicated Charles. “Him first. There’s another one—” He glanced at where Sherlock now sat beside the bed. “But we’ll give them a minute.”

The medics nodded their understanding and got Charles to his feet to lead him out of the room. From the doorway, Donovan offered Lestrade a sullen scowl as he made a shooing gesture and followed her into the sitting room.

***

FIVER WAS PANICKING again. “John. John!” he kept whispering, when all John wanted to do was sleep.

“You’re not really here,” John slurred. “You’re a ghost.”

But Fiver was shaking him now, gently but firmly, which John thought was impressive for an incorporeal being. He tried to bat the offensive spirit away, but it was difficult given that John had his back to it and didn’t feel like rolling over.

“John . . . love . . .” Fiver’s voice was breaking, and John suffered a pang of remorse for having hurt his feelings.

The voice came closer to John’s ear. “If I make the mistake of caring, will it save you?”

These words were familiar. John had said them himself not so many days before. They’d been playing . . . pretending . . . 

The memory fell into place like the first drop of rain from a cloud. John relived it clearly in his mind’s eye, how he’d leaned in to whisper those words in the ear of his flatmate. And amid all the playacting and all the games, those words had been utterly true, completely sincere.

And here they were again now, back to haunt him.

John summoned the energy to turn toward the man who sat beside the bed. It took additional effort to open his eyes, even slightly. “Not Fiver.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “No,” he agreed with a hard swallow, “decidedly not.”

From the entry hall they could hear Lestrade directing. “The one you have is for custody. This one in here is not, though we’ll need to question him when he’s well enough... Sally, get Anderson and the crew up here. I want them ready to sweep the scene.”

The medics returned but hesitated to approach the bed.

Sherlock felt something cracking inside him. “John,” he said intently, “they’re going to take you—” He was forced to stop and pull himself together before he could continue speaking. “For treatment. Do you understand?” It dawned on Sherlock as he spoke them that they were almost the exact words Mycroft had said to him. But Sherlock had refused, much as John was shaking his head now.

“You don’t understand?” Sherlock asked.

“Make them leave me alone,” John pleaded.

The medics were creeping closer. Sherlock turned to them and held up a hand. “Wait. John . . .”

John’s eyes were closing. “So tired,” he murmured. “Take me home.”

Sherlock couldn’t wish on John any permutation of the eight days he’d spent in his room at Mycroft’s flat during his own rehabilitation. But he also didn’t want John to suffer in a strange place. And deciding that John was smart enough to understand what lay in store—that he knew and wanted to go home anyway—Sherlock slipped an arm under his flatmate and helped him to sit up.

“Get me a blanket,” Sherlock said to the medics, then murmured to John, “Where’s your shirt?”

John shook his head slightly, even as he began to lean into Sherlock’s shoulder for support.

“All right, never mind. Lestrade!” Sherlock called.

One of the emergency workers returned, followed by the inspector. Sherlock took the proffered blanket and draped it over John, then turned to Lestrade. “Your car. Bring it ’round.”

“What are you doing?” Lestrade asked.

“Taking him home.”

“You can’t,” said Lestrade. “He needs treatment.”

“I’ll look after him,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade pegged Sherlock with a hard stare. “You can hardly look after yourself, much less a recovering addict. Do you have any idea what—?”

“Yes!” Sherlock hissed. “John has asked me to take him home. Bring your car around. Please.”

Lestrade looked as if he were contemplating further argument, but all at once he turned on his heel and started for the door. “Meet me out front in five minutes.”

Donovan scowled from where she’d been hovering. “What about the assault charges?”

“We’ll deal with it later,” said Lestrade as he exited the suite, allowing the door to slam shut behind him.

Donovan took up a stance leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “He’s our best witness, you know,” she told Sherlock.

“Hardly,” Sherlock countered. “A court case that hinges on a man who’s been perpetually drugged for almost four days is weak at best.” He turned his attention to the man leaning against him. “John, I need you to walk a bit. Can you do that?”

John’s response was an indistinct murmur, but when guided, he obediently stood and moved forward, though he required a hefty amount of support. The medic came over to help, steering John from the left while Sherlock remained on his right, and somehow they managed to get down to the car, though Sherlock guessed it took well over five minutes.

Lestrade opened the back door of the car and waited for Sherlock to ease John in and over before climbing in after him. “You’re sure about this?”

Sherlock hesitated but then gave a sharp, decisive nod.

Lestrade sighed and shut the door then slid into the driver’s seat. When he remained quiet as he drove, Sherlock finally admitted, “I was expecting a lecture.”

“Disappointed?” asked Lestrade. Sherlock didn’t reply, and Lestrade glanced in his rearview mirror. “You don’t care about much, Sherlock, so I figure when you do, it’s probably important.”

There was a long silence before Sherlock remarked, “There won’t be a theft at the museum in New York.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was the one who was supposed to do it.”

Lestrade was forced to hit the brake, stopping just short of hitting the car in front of him. “ _What?!_ ”

“It was John’s ransom. But we figured out where he was being held before I could go through with it,” said Sherlock.

“We?”

Sherlock only shook his head.

Lestrade sighed. “But you didn’t do the others.”

“Of course not. They were setting me up.”

“Yes, well, in the meantime we still have several missing pieces of art to find.”

“You should ask Charles,” Sherlock said absently as he reached over to adjust the blanket that shrouded John’s shoulders.

“You said he was working for Moriarty?”

“Mm.” They were stopping in front of the Baker Street flat now and Sherlock’s mind was already on what was to come.

Lestrade pulled open the back door of the car. “You realize I’m going to have a number of questions for you as well as him,” he warned with a nod in John’s direction.

“When he’s well enough we’ll be happy to answer them.”

It was more difficult getting John out of the car than it had been to get him in; John spent some time trying to shrug off their best efforts until he grudgingly relented to their tugging and urging, only to come close to falling on his face when they attempted to extract him.

Mrs. Hudson was at the door before they were. “My word,” she clucked, “I thought you boys were too old to be having the police tote you home.”

“I can take it from here, Inspector,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade hesitated. “If you need anything . . .”

Sherlock nodded his understanding and led John inside. Mrs. Hudson fretted after them as Sherlock negotiated the stairs, and he was finally compelled to tell her, “We’ll be fine, Mrs. Hudson. We just need some rest.”

She took a look at John—all but asleep, shoeless, in flannel pants with no shirt and an insufficient (in her estimation) blanket over his shoulders—and said with undisguised disapproval, “Clearly.”

“If we receive any visitors, we’re not in,” Sherlock told her and shut the door to their flat firmly behind him. “Come, John,” he sighed to the near dead weight he continued to support, “to bed.”

Sherlock herded John into John’s bedroom and sat him on the edge of the bed, waiting a moment to be sure John wouldn’t topple. But his flatmate was already making the slow climb out of the sleepiness that the last dose of drugs had caused, and remained upright. Soon, Sherlock knew from experience, the insomnia was likely to set in.

“John,” said Sherlock, bending in attempt to gain eye contact as John’s attention appeared to be on his feet. With obvious effort, John brought his gaze up. “It’s going to get bad,” Sherlock told him with a pang of guilt. It had been selfish to bring John home, he realized; it was only fair to give him one more chance to change his mind.

John nodded numbly, but Sherlock wasn’t convinced his flatmate understood the scope of what was about to happen until John murmured, “I saw . . . in Afghanistan . . .   
the opium . . .”

It didn’t do much to make Sherlock feel better about the immediate future, but it was something.

“Shirt,” said John faintly.

“What? Oh. Shirt . . .” Sherlock looked at the chest-of-drawers. John was a tidy person, with habits bred in the military; his clothing would be ordered accordingly. Guessing that shirts would come after undergarments but before jeans, he chose a drawer in the middle and was rewarded by the discovery of three stacks of neatly folded shirts. Sherlock selected one off the top, and John shrugged the blanket from his shoulders and, with careful deliberation, managed to put on the garment Sherlock handed to him.

“You need to rest now, while you can,” Sherlock said.

John nodded again and looked over his shoulder at his pillow. He shivered and began to pull ineffectually at the bedspread.

“Let me,” said Sherlock. He pulled back the covers as much as he could without having John move. “Lie down.”

The trembling was getting worse, and even lying down was a chore. The strange dichotomy of the situation, John learned, was that his limbs simultaneously felt heavy and yet refused to be still. He tried to concentrate on the medical aspects of his condition, on his nervous system’s reawakening and how it was a good thing, though he found it difficult to remain centered mentally when his body was cramping and spasming.

Sherlock continued to stand awkwardly beside the bed. At length he asked haltingly, “Do you want me to call Sarah?”

 

John was forced to compose his reply between shudders. “No . . . God, no . . . why . . . would I . . .?”

“She’s a . . . medical professional . . .” Though Sherlock’s tone suggested he wasn’t persuaded of Sarah’s credentials.

John’s eyes were beginning to look glassy. “Cold,” he said.

“I’ll bring more blankets,” said Sherlock, moving as if to leave. “And some water.”

“Nnnn,” John said.

Sherlock hesitated.

John was blinking rapidly in a way that suggested he was having trouble focusing. “Ssss . . .”

Sherlock felt his chest constrict and his throat tighten. He’d been so busy worrying about how terrible this would be for John, he hadn’t considered it might also be awful for himself. He leaned over the bed. “What is it, John? What do you need?”

“Ssss . . . tay.”

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock assured him.

John was either shaking his head or suffering a particularly bad convulsion. “Nnnn _o_.”

Sherlock was at a loss. John had no chair in his room; it was too small for any excess furniture. Feeling uneasy, he took a seat on the edge of the bed. He couldn’t remember being so anxious at the start of his self-imposed “therapy,” but he’d also gone in with the rather foolish notion that what was so hard for others would be—as so many other things in life—no trouble for him. John, on the other hand, knew what he was facing; he had every reason to be afraid.

But what Sherlock was having the most difficulty coming to terms with was his own rising dread.

_I’ll stay here until he falls back asleep . . . Or until it comes to the point where he won’t know the difference . . ._

John already appeared unable to see clearly. In fact, Sherlock wasn’t sure John was seeing anything at all. His flatmate’s eyes were open, yes, but the gaze was as empty as a dead man’s, and in a moment of panic, Sherlock was moved to check that John still had a pulse. The way John jerked when Sherlock touched him alarmed the detective but also served to affirm John was still alive. 

_Blankets, water . . ._ Sherlock was impatient to channel his own disquiet into action, as if doing so would move things along, push them toward the end of all this.  
 _You owe him this much_ , Sherlock told himself. _If not for you . . ._

Sherlock dismissed the notion of karma, the belief that he somehow deserved this as cosmic punishment. Even if he did, John did not.

But the idea that he was responsible for what was happening . . . That, traced back to the roots of the problem, was not outside the realm of possibility.

A sound from the living room jolted Sherlock from his dark swirl of thought. Glancing again at John, he rose and went to the bedroom door, only to be greeted by Mrs. Hudson and her tea tray.

“There you are,” she said brusquely. “Brought you both some tea.” She pushed into the room and set the tray on the bedside table, tutting when she saw John. “Poor dear. I could tell he was sick.” She drew back suddenly. “Not catching, I hope?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson, it’s not catching,” Sherlock answered dully.

“He needs more blankets,” Mrs. Hudson decided, breezing to the door. “I’ll fetch them. Goodness,” she added as a parting shot, “what you put him through, Sherlock, it’s a wonder . . . Well, I guess he wouldn’t stay if he minded,” she amended when she caught sight of Sherlock’s stunned and colorless visage. She hastily disappeared.

Sherlock looked to John once more. John had at last closed his eyes, though they were streaming now as if he were crying. Sherlock knew this was a symptom of the withdrawal, but he hated the sight of it. He returned to the bed. Sat down. Brushed one of the wet cheeks with his hand.

Mrs. Hudson bustled back in with a pile of blankets. “Here now, no use crying over it,” she said as she set them at the foot of the bed. “He’ll be fine, you’ll see. Have some tea, and don’t worry about the tray; I’ll come back for it later.” She paused at the door. “And I’ll bring you up something to eat. The two of you look half starved on top of it all. Just don’t get used to it,” she warned before sweeping out again.

Sherlock sighed and reached for the blankets, tucking all save one around John. The last one he wrapped himself in, almost as if girding himself, before lying down in wait for what was coming.


	7. Chapter 7

THERE WAS NOTHING in John’s stomach, but that didn’t stop his body from trying to eject its contents just the same. The result was abundant dry heaving with the occasional yield of stomach acid and bile.

Sherlock handled this as he came to handle much in five days that followed. He endured John’s kicking and thrashing, holding him still periodically to pour some water down his throat. He wiped John’s streaming eyes and nose. He patiently and repeatedly returned thrown blankets to the bed. He restrained John from scratching so hard and viciously that the force of it threatened to leave bruises and abrasions.

If John even knew Sherlock was there, he didn’t show it.

There was a point at which John screamed at his sister. There were several conversations with someone named Fiver. John muttered to and about any number of people Sherlock had not heard him mention before. But John never acknowledged Sherlock, never said his name.

Mrs. Hudson came twice each day, quietly leaving and removing sandwiches and tea. Sherlock made himself nibble from time to time, only to avoid a lecture. And maybe, of lesser import, to spare her feelings.

The mobile phones rang, and Sherlock ignored them. The phones chimed to alert them of voicemails and text messages, and Sherlock ignored them. Mrs. Hudson left the post beside the door each afternoon, and Sherlock ignored it.

He didn’t shower—he didn’t trust leaving John alone that long—though he had, over the course of the days, several causes for changing his clothes.

He learned to doze while lying on the edge of the mattress as though balanced on a razor blade, and through the equivalent of a tantrum.

He ascertained which of the various noises his flatmate made should be acted upon and which could be disregarded.

And then some time in the early morning of the fifth day, John became still. It was this stillness, and the quiet that accompanied it, that woke Sherlock.

At the moment of opening his eyes, there came a surge of confusion. Sherlock was used to waking suddenly, but he had not realized he was asleep. For the previous four days, in his drive to be attentive to his flatmate’s needs Sherlock had done nothing more than doze; now he mentally berated himself for slacking in his duties.

Then his senses began to flood him with information. John was not muttering, not moving. It was true that the flailing had begun to abate over the past day, but this calm was unprecedented.

It was dark; the clock read 3:14. Sherlock peered at the figure slumbering next to him. He listened to the soft, steady breathing and knew the worst was over.

He drew back then, prepared to slip away and maybe (finally!) shower, but beside him John sucked in a short, sharp breath and curled in more closely. Sherlock waited a moment before trying again, but like a blind kitten seeking its mother, John moved with him, and in the knowledge that if he moved any farther they might both fall off the bed entirely, Sherlock concluded he was trapped.

This made him distinctly uncomfortable.

Like a surgeon wielding a scalpel, Sherlock mentally severed his physical awareness of John and discarded it in favor of watching the glow that crept around the edges of the curtains from the street lamps outside slowly give way to the first fingers of sunlight. But every now and then John would shudder slightly, or make some little sound, and Sherlock would be reminded he was there and have to refocus once more.

And so Sherlock was on the precipice of sleep when John stirred and asked drowsily, “How was New York?”

Startled awake, Sherlock glanced at John, whose eyes were still closed. “New York,” Sherlock echoed flatly, sounding almost as if he’d never heard of it, much less been there short of a week before.

“Charles said you were in New York.”

John’s tone had been conversational, but Sherlock sensed he was in danger of having the ground fracture beneath him, that whatever he said next would be the weight in the scales. And there was much Sherlock could say—about New York or Irene, or even about Charles and what had happened to John—but he opted to throw out what he considered to be the only pertinent fact regarding his trip. “I went there to burglarize a museum.”

John’s eyes opened. “What?”

“They wanted me to steal something from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

“Who?”

“Charles. And Moriarty.”

John grimaced and Sherlock guessed he was suffering the residual aches and pains from the recent hyperactivity of his nervous system and the subsequent muscle strain. “It will hurt for a while,” Sherlock told him. “Weeks, maybe months.”

The look John flashed him was far from sympathetic. “So? Did you?”

“You’re angry,” Sherlock realized.

“Me? No, I can’t imagine I have a reason to be angry. Let’s see, you went to New York while the man you were afraid of held me hostage and forced me into a drug habit that resulted in what I can honestly say has been the worst . . . however many days it’s been of my life . . .”

Sherlock blinked rapidly as he tried to absorb this. “I went to New York for you,” he said.

“Really? Because I wasn’t in New York. That I know of.” This last had the tone of an afterthought, and John’s brow furrowed a little as if trying to decide if he’d missed something.

“The calyx was to be your ransom. I didn’t know Charles was . . . I didn’t know what Charles was doing,” Sherlock rephrased.

“It didn’t occur to you that the man who preyed on you when you were fifteen might still be a predator twenty years later?” John asked. “If not, then why were you so scared of him the night he came here?” When Sherlock remained silent, John added, “Ah! Because it’s all about you, isn’t it?”

Sherlock felt as if he’d just been tossed into the deep end of a swimming pool. They were dangerously close to a discussion of feelings and all the messy, subjective points of view that would entail. Desperate to stick to the facts, and thus stay on solid ground, Sherlock said, “I went to New York to do as they’d asked so I could get you back.”

John stared at him for a long time, and it suddenly struck Sherlock as absurd that they were having this conversation while lying in John’s bed after four and more days of having been sequestered in their flat as if on some disastrous, backward honeymoon.

“You’re an idiot,” John finally said.

“I know.”

“So? Did you?” John asked again.

“Did I what?”

“Steal whatever it was.”

“A calyx. It’s an ancient Greek . . . No. I didn’t.”

“Mm.”

“Mycroft found where Charles was keeping you, so I came home to get you. Which is what I should have done in the first place,” Sherlock admitted, “what I would have done if I’d been thinking clearly.”

“So I have Mycroft to thank,” said John.

“It would seem so,” Sherlock agreed. After a moment he added, “Lestrade has your gun, I’m afraid. I used it to break Charles’s nose, so it was taken with the rest of the evidence from the scene. I’ll see that you get it back.”

“You broke his nose?”

“I would have done worse, but Lestrade—” They both froze when they heard noises in the living room. “That’ll be Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock predicted, throwing off his blanket and sitting up.

John pulled a couple of the other blankets more tightly around him to make up for the loss of body heat as Mrs. Hudson bustled in with one of what Sherlock had begun to suspect was a very large collection of trays. “You’re awake!” she all but shouted.

“And not deaf,” John replied mildly.

“Hungry? I can’t see how you wouldn’t be,” the landlady went on. “I’ve brought up some toast for Sherlock, but I can make more, no trouble. I just didn’t know you were awake,” she added with a hint of rebuke.

Sherlock stood. “John can have mine; I’m going to shower.”

“I’m really not that hungry,” said John.

“You should at least try to eat, dear,” Mrs. Hudson insisted. “Would soup be better?”

John felt himself go queasy at the suggestion, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. “God, no.” In the end he was persuaded to nibble at the toast, mostly as a defense against having a variety of other foods forced on him.

Sherlock returned, looking much more himself, and dropped John’s mobile phone on the bed. He held his own in his other hand. “I haven’t looked at them. If you’re feeling up to it . . .”

John gazed at the phone and felt his head swim. “You do it.”

Sherlock frowned. “Do you want to shower?”

“I don’t think I can stand up,” John told him.

“You need to. You should. You’ve been in bed for a week and a half, if you count the time Ch . . . You should at least try to get up and move around a bit.”

John knew this was true, but it was easier said than done.

Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and took John’s from the bed to set it on the bedside table. Then he pulled back the blankets and bedspread. “Come on, up you go.”

“Stop that,” said John, reaching for his covers.

“No you don’t.” Sherlock pushed them the rest of the way down until they fell off the end of the bed.

John glared.

“I’d really rather not have to pull you off the bed,” said Sherlock.

Seeing no other option, John turned and slid to the side of the bed, though he continued to glare at his flatmate. But once perched on the edge, John didn’t trust his legs enough to bear his weight if he rose.

“I won’t let you fall, John.”

So John stood.

Almost immediately he felt his knees turn to rubber, threatening to drop him. But Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders to brace him. “The world is going to feel a little skewwhiff for a while,” Sherlock said.

“This is what it was like for you,” John supposed.

“It’s different for everyone, but some aspects are universal.”

John took a tentative step forward and very nearly landed in Sherlock’s arms. “I feel like I’m learning to ride a bike.”

“You should learn to walk first,” Sherlock advised.

John was formulating an appropriately snippy retort when Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. “You’re up!” she crowed.

“And still not deaf,” said John.

“I just wondered,” Mrs. Hudson went on, looking to Sherlock, “whether you were ready for visitors. The inspector has been here every day, and now there’s a girl—”

“Sarah?” John asked, and Sherlock forced himself to ignore his flatmate’s hopeful tone.

“No, this one’s an _American_.” Mrs. Hudson whispered the last word as if it were somehow vulgar. “She’s been by the past couple of days asking for Sherlock.”

“Irene,” Sherlock deduced.

“Who’s Irene?” asked John.

“An old friend,” Sherlock replied. “Is she here now, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Downstairs,” the landlady told him. “Shall I send her up?”

Sherlock answered “yes” at the same moment John said “no.” When Sherlock frowned a question at him, John said, “I’m not ready to see anyone.”

“Then stay in here,” Sherlock said. “It’s what you wanted to do in the first place, isn’t it?”

John was unable to hide the hurt and surprise the words engendered, but if Sherlock noticed he chose to discount it. Instead he merely remarked, “Though we should at least change the linens.”

John stepped back, throwing off the support of his flatmate’s grip. This did get Sherlock’s attention. “John?”

“Why are you acting like this?” John asked.

“I’m not acting like anything. An old friend has come a long way to see me; why shouldn’t I be allowed to have her visit?”

“It’s a wonder you have such a thing as an old friend,” John snapped bitingly. “But then, if she stays far enough away, maybe that makes it easier.”

They locked eyes.

Abruptly Sherlock turned away. “He’s all yours, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll fetch Irene myself.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Hudson sighed as she watched Sherlock depart.

John wobbled and sat heavily on the bed.

“If you tell me where you keep your linens, I’ll get them for you,” the landlady offered.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll manage,” John told her. “Just be sure to close the door on your way out, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“He doesn’t mean anything by it, you know,” Mrs. Hudson soothed. “It’s the stress; you know how he gets.”

“Stress,” muttered John. He could hear a woman’s voice now, coming from the living room.

“He spent every possible minute in here,” Mrs. Hudson went on. “He was determined that you not wake up and think you were alone.”

The woman ( _Irene_ , John reminded himself—someone he’d never heard Sherlock mention, and yet she was an “old friend”?) in the living room was laughing. Had Sherlock said something amusing? “Well I’m alone now, aren’t I?” John asked Mrs. Hudson. “Except for you,” he added when he realized how that must have sounded. “Sorry.”

“Don’t fret over my feelings, dear,” she replied, and as best John could tell, she meant it. “I know you’re not quite yourself.” She moved to the door. “If you need anything . . . Not that you should get used to it,” she added before quietly closing the door behind her.

John began to pick at his fingernails. They needed cutting, and he most certainly could do with a shower and a shave. Not that he trusted himself to manage any of those things at the moment; the idea of wielding anything sharp in his condition was the stuff horror movies were made of.

He could hear Mrs. Hudson saying something to Sherlock and _Irene_. John wondered why he couldn’t help but think of Sherlock’s friend in italic.

He glanced at the bedside table and saw his phone. Might as well check his messages.

Several were from his sister Harry, who panicked if she didn’t hear from John on a semi-regular basis, though she never actually did anything about it. John figured he could be dead a fortnight or more before Harry would ever exert herself to look for him.

And of course most of the messages were from Sarah, wondering where he was and what he was up to. God, where to start? John couldn’t imagine trying to explain what had happened. But he didn’t want to sit there alone, either, so he dialed her number.

“John! Where have you been?”

“It’s . . . a long story.”

“Must be for you to have been gone so long,” said Sarah. “I checked hospitals, you know. I was wondering whether to file missing persons.”

“You could have just asked Mrs. Hudson,” said John.

Sarah sighed. “I did, finally. She said you were sick.”

“I was.”

“Better now though?”

“It’s all relative, I suppose.”

“You should have called me,” Sarah told him.

“I know, I just . . . didn’t want you to see it,” John admitted.

“Shall I come check on you now?”

“I’m still pretty ghastly.” Even without a mirror handy, he was sure of this.

“As if I haven’t seen that before!” said Sarah, quickly adding, “In patients, I mean. Not you in particular.”

Another laugh floated in from the living room.

“You know,” decided John, “maybe I could do with a little company.”

***

“WELL, I’M GLAD you’re happy to see me,” said Irene when Sherlock came down the stairs, his expression one of preoccupied irritation.

“What?” he asked, stopping a few steps from where Irene stood at the bottom.

She couldn’t help but laugh as she came up to meet him. “You’re as stupid as ever when it comes to people, Sherl.”

Sherlock’s visage darkened further. “Don’t call me that. Seriously, it’s rude to continue calling someone by a name they don’t like.”

Irene arched her brows. “Touchy today,” she said as she took his arm and forced him to lead her up to the flat. “Your housekeeper—”

“She’s the landlady, not a housekeeper.”

“—said you weren’t taking visitors because one of you was sick?”

Sherlock only grimaced.

“Feeling better now?” Irene asked.

“It wasn’t me,” Sherlock informed her. They’d reached the flat and he waved a hand in the general direction of the sofa as an invitation to sit. But Irene was avidly looking around.

“Where is it?” she asked.

“Where’s what?”

“Didn’t you—oh! Here! You didn’t even open it!”

Beside the door was a large box on which Mrs. Hudson had piled the rest of their post.

“I hadn’t noticed,” said Sherlock.

“You didn’t notice a huge box? Or any of the rest of your mail, for that matter?” She eyed Sherlock speculatively. “Just how sick was he?”

Sherlock studied his feet for a moment before asking, “So what’s in it then?”

“Open it!”

Sighing, Sherlock tossed the collection of envelopes and catalogues onto the sofa until only the box was left. It was large; it came to his mid-thigh and was almost as wide as it was tall. It was also covered in tape. “I’ll need a scissor,” he said.

“Where are they?” asked Irene, craning around at the general disarray of the flat.

“Just bring me the knife off my work table,” Sherlock directed, pointing.

“That’s a nice one,” Irene said as she handed him the ivory-handled pocketknife. “Heirloom?”

“No.” Sherlock neatly sliced the tape holding the flaps of the cardboard construction then pulled them open to reveal a sea of Styrofoam packing. “Oh, honestly, Irene.”

She laughed, clapping like a child who has performed a great trick. “What’s one more mess in this place?” she asked him.

Sherlock brushed back some of the packing in an effort to excavate whatever it might conceal but eventually resorted to putting his whole hand and half his forearm in to find the item.

Mrs. Hudson came through just then. “You’ve done it now,” she warned Sherlock. “He’s in an awful sulk. And that thing,” she added when she noticed what he was doing. “Do you have any idea how difficult it was to get that up the stairs?”

Irene’s eyes opened wide with guilt. “I’m so sorry! Did you have to bring it up?”

“Oh, of course not, dear,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I had the delivery man bring it. But it was quite the trial.”

“It _is_ heavy,” Sherlock agreed, having grabbed hold of the object. He put his other hand in for a better grip and lifted out a large cuplike object, rather like an ornate planter.

“Careful!” Irene squeaked.

It was, of course, the calyx.

“Irene . . .” Sherlock began.

“That man is naked,” gasped Mrs. Hudson, catching sight of the artwork that decorated the vase.

“Mrs. Hudson, perhaps you should go make John some more tea,” Sherlock suggested.

The landlady stared a little longer before going to the door. “Do try to be nice to him,” she pleaded. “He’s still not completely well.”

Sherlock scowled as he set the calyx on the floor. “I am. I have been, and he only repays me in grief.”

Irene laughed again. “That sounds familiar!”

Mrs. Hudson only shook her head and made her exit.

Sherlock stood staring at the ancient Greek artifact, and Irene stood watching him for a minute before finally asking, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

But Sherlock only asked, “How did you do it?”

Irene hesitated but decided to let the issue slide. “It wasn’t that hard. With the right look and some convincing credentials, I was able to get access. Jonah made the replacement.”

“Jonah?” Sherlock repeated with no little surprise.

“He manages our props and art department. He’s really good when he’s not strung out.”

“I trust he wasn’t ‘strung out’ when he created a duplicate?”

Irene gave a tiny, one-shouldered shrug.

“That makes me feel better,” Sherlock remarked dryly. He looked at the urn. “I have no idea where I’m going to put it.”

“Just stick it in a corner somewhere,” Irene told him. “But maybe show the other side.”

Sherlock craned for a look at the opposite image, which appeared to be two warriors arming for battle. At least they were decently dressed. He was trying to decide which corner to shove the calyx into when he heard the door to John’s room open.

“Sorry,” John half mumbled as he entered. “Just going to jump in the shower.”

Irene’s eyes darted between Sherlock, who’d gone stock still, and the slightly hunched figure of his flatmate, who was walking determinedly but also carefully through the room. When Sherlock neither offered an introduction nor moved to help John, Irene stepped over and took John’s arm.

“You must be John,” she offered cheerfully.

John frowned at her, prepared to dislike her. But her genuine smile and sparkling green eyes made it difficult.

“I’m Irene. Adler. Irene Adler,” she said, laughing at herself, “if you say it all at once.”

“Leave him be, Irene,” said Sherlock, “and help me move this.”

John turned to look. “God, what is that?”

“The calyx,” Sherlock answered.

This sounded familiar, but John’s tired brain took an extra minute to find the reference. “The thing from the museum?”

“The same.”

“But you said you didn’t—”

“I didn’t. She did.”

John looked again at the girl holding his arm. She was tiny, didn’t even come to his shoulder. Hardly the image of a high-profile criminal.

All Irene said was, “How are you feeling?”

John wondered how much Sherlock had told her. He decided it would be best to remain non-committal in any case. “Better. Thank you. I just . . .” He moved to disengage himself. “I have a friend coming over, so I want to get cleaned up a bit.”

“A friend?” asked Sherlock placidly as he rotated the calyx.

“Sarah’s on her way over,” John told him.

“Mm.” Sherlock shoved the artifact toward the nearest corner.

Irene gave John an appraising look. “Need help?”

“I’ll be fine. Thanks,” John assured her uncertainly. Irene’s solicitousness unnerved him, though he wasn’t sure why; it was almost as if she were trying to make up for Sherlock’s complete lack of interest. He stepped away, though it meant risking his ability to remain upright. It had taken every reserve of strength to get halfway through the living room.

John felt the room sway around him. Instinctively he reached out, looking for a piece of furniture, something to hold onto, maybe a chair to sit in. Instead he was startled to find something soft and warm behind him, bracing him.

“Come, John,” said Sherlock, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

For one long and terrible minute, John was tempted to drop himself into his flatmate’s arms and be done with it, so tired was he of working to keep standing. He knew he’d telegraphed this somehow as he felt Sherlock tense as if readying to catch him. But John marshaled the last ounces of his energy and said, “You’re not coming in the shower with me, Sherlock.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” Sherlock answered shortly. “I was only going to help you as far as the bathroom. Unless you’d rather go back to bed after all.”

“No.” John stumbled forward, which only landed him back with Irene holding his arm again. The concern etched on her features only made John angry; what was it to her whether he was well? She didn’t even know him.

Behind him, Sherlock heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Suit yourself, John; I’ve done what I can.” It was a clear dismissal.

Irene offered John a wan smile. “Maybe you’d be better off in a ba—” she began but stopped abruptly, her eyes flying to Sherlock.

“In a what? A bath?” John asked. He turned to look at Sherlock, wondering why Irene had lost all her color. But Sherlock’s expression was studiously neutral. “I don’t have time now for all that,” John explained. “As it is, Sarah will be here any minute.” He pulled free of Irene once more and trudged toward the bathroom, pausing at one point to steady himself with the back of a chair.

Sherlock had gone to the sofa and begun organizing the mound of envelopes that had been dumped there. Irene approached slowly, trying for once to think about what she wanted to say before opening her mouth. “You have an interesting way of showing your affection,” she broached. “I’m used to it, but I don’t think John’s quite got the hang of it yet.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“You wouldn’t want him to go the way of Christopher,” Irene persisted.

Slapping down a collection of catalogues, Sherlock snapped, “I asked Christopher to leave because he distracted me from my work.”

“But you never thought he’d actually do it.”

“I was only surprised because he’d never done anything else I’d asked of him,” muttered Sherlock, now sorting with barely contained fury.

“So what did John do to incur your wrath?” Irene asked. “Aside from get sick at an inconvenient time?”

Sherlock stopped and pegged her with a glare. “It has nothing to do with convenience. And there’s no wrath,” he added quietly, going back to reading the return address on the envelope he was holding.

“Cold shoulder then,” said Irene. “What did he say to upset you?”

Sherlock studied the envelope. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“That must be the most fascinating piece of mail you’ve ever received,” Irene remarked. “And you do too. You get this way when your feelings are hurt.”

Sherlock tossed the envelope back onto the pile and flung himself into a chair. “John’s better; that’s all that matters,” he said flatly.

Irene knelt down beside the chair and put her face very close to his. “You’re brooding. And if you won’t tell me why, I’ll just have to ask John.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You know better.”

“He wouldn’t tell you anything.”

“Wouldn’t? Or couldn’t because even he doesn’t know why you’re upset?”

“Is Sa—oh,” said John, stopping short when he found them in such close conversation. Misinterpreting the spots of color that bloomed on his flatmate’s cheeks, John went on tensely, “You have a bedroom for that, you know.”

Irene let out a whoop of laughter, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked away. “No need to be jealous, John, I promise!” said Irene, rising. “I’m just trying to find out what’s got Sherl in such a mood.”

“Sherl?” John’s eyes flicked toward Sherlock, who didn’t turn. “Well when you figure it out, let me know.”

John watched apprehensively as Irene moved across the room toward him. “Did the shower help?” she asked, too sweetly.

Darting another look at his flatmate, John answered, “Cleared my head a bit, yeah.”

“Didn’t shave, though,” Irene observed.

John imagined Sherlock watching them out of the corner of his eye, silently exulting in John’s discomfort. “My hands weren’t steady enough.”

“Want me to help you?”

“Irene!” Sherlock snapped.

She shot John a sympathetic look, one that somehow suggested they were in cahoots, which was ridiculous because John hardly knew her. “I need to know,” Irene went on slowly, “what you said to him.”

“Irene,” Sherlock said again, his tone all warning.

“I didn’t say anything,” John told her.

Irene’s brows went up, and she looked over her shoulder at where Sherlock sat glowering. “Is that it?” she asked.

Sherlock rose, stalked across to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

“That would be a yes,” said Irene with a sigh.

John frowned at her. “Who _are_ you?”

“Irene. Adler. Didn’t we do this?”

“Yes, but—”

“You sure you don’t want me to help you with that?” she asked, pointing at his face. “You won’t win any kisses with—”

“Hello!” a voice called up the stairs. “Sorry it took me so long, but I got stuck at the clin—” Sarah appeared in the doorway. “—ic. Um . . . hi?” she added when she saw the cute little redhead standing next to John.

“Oh! Uh, Sarah, this is Irene. Irene, Sarah,” said John. “Irene is an old friend of Sherlock’s.”

Sarah didn’t bother to hide her surprise. “How long have you known him?” she asked as she shrugged off her jacket.

“About ten years.”

“You’re American,” Sarah said rather stupidly.

Irene shrugged. “No one’s perfect?”

“But how did you meet—?”

“Is this really what we’re going to talk about?” John wondered aloud.

The two women looked at him.

“So you want me to help you shave?” Irene asked again.

John stared at her for a moment. Looked at Sarah, who seemed to be waiting to see what he’d say. Finally he ran his hands over his face and said, “If you need me, I’ll be . . .” And with that he staggered off toward his room.

After the door had closed behind him, Irene turned to Sarah, pointed in opposite directions, and mouthed, “Fighting.”

Sarah nodded gravely. “Maybe I should just go.”

But Irene shook her head. “I don’t know John very well, but Sherlock will be a mess if we can’t get them back together.”

“We?” Sarah looked uncertainly in the direction John had gone. “I’m sure they’ll work it out. I mean . . .”

“But what if it impacts his recovery?” Irene insisted.

“I don’t think . . .”

“That kind of stress? After being sick for . . . days, or whatever?” Sarah’s brow furrowed, and sensing victory, Irene let up a bit. “But you know him better than I do,” she said lightly, “Maybe it won’t matter to him if Sherlock’s upset.”

Sarah had the look of someone who found herself holding a parcel from a posh store but wasn’t sure how she’d been talked into buying it. She sighed. “All right. I’ll go talk to him.”

“No! That won’t work,” said Irene. “They know us too well. They’ll talk around us. I’ll talk to John; you go talk to Sherlock.”

Sarah opened her mouth to protest, but Irene was already headed for John’s door.


	8. Chapter 8

“OH, THIS IS just sad,” said Irene.

John was lying on his stripped mattress and pillow, his back to the door, one of Mrs. Hudson’s blankets pulled over him. “Go away,” he said without stirring.

“Where are your sheets?” Irene asked.

“Please go away?” John was hopeful his polite prefix might have some effect on this outrageous woman.

Instead, Irene took what John considered to be an unnecessarily enthusiastic and bouncy seat on the edge of his bed. “Okay, so what _didn’t_ you say to Sherl that has him so upset?”

Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away? Like one of those animals—what were they called?—that played dead . . .

“We could start with what you _did_ say, and work from there,” Irene offered.

Hopeless. Utterly hopeless. If Sherlock couldn’t rid himself of her in a decade, John realized there was little chance of him doing it at all. “How does he stand you?” John marveled aloud.

“That’s mean,” said Irene.

John finally looked over his shoulder at her. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I don’t see it, how the two of you can possibly get along.”

Irene thought this over for a moment, then said, “You know how he sort of sees himself as a computer?”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he sighed.

“Well, computers need programs to run. And I’m his self-diagnostic program.”

John stared, flummoxed. “What?”

“Sherl doesn’t like to think about how he feels; it’s sort of a waste of his time or brain or whatever. So I do that for him.”

“Because you understand how he feels better than he does.”

“Have you _seen_ him with people? Emotions don’t compute.” She studied John. “We should figure out which program you are. That could be helpful.”

Suddenly John was irritated with himself for having been drawn in by this woman’s insanity. He turned his back again. “I’m not any kind of program.”

“Of course you are. Sherl wouldn’t bother with you if you didn’t serve a function. Hmm . . .”

“Why do you keep calling him that?” John asked.

“I’ve always called him that. He hates it,” she admitted, “but I can’t seem to help it. You’re a doctor, so maybe you serve a medical purpose?”

“Not likely. He hates when I—” John stopped there, mentally kicking himself. Why was he helping her in this ridiculous inquiry?

“Right,” said Irene, “he doesn’t want you to touch him. That makes sense.”

John looked over at her again. “Why would that make sense?”

But Irene ignored him. “It’s not defense; Sherl’s never had a particular interest in his own safety.”

“That’s true enough,” John muttered.

“What do you do for him, besides keep him company?”

“Nothing! He just drags me around with him to save him from being bored.”

“So you’re a game?”

“Sounds about right.”

“There has to be more to it,” Irene insisted. “A game wouldn’t have the ability to upset him so much.”

“Unless he lost,” said John absentmindedly. “He certainly hates to lose.”

Irene sat up straighter. “You may have something there.”

“What?”

“Losing you would be one of the worst things that could happen to him,” Irene went on.

“What?” John asked again.

“When his last boyfriend left—”

“I’m not his boyfriend.”

“—he went through . . .” Irene flapped her hands in what John took to be some kind of display of chaos. “It would take a week for me to explain it all, but anyway, I think we need to reassure him you’re not planning to leave any time soon.”

John threw off the blanket and sat up. “Why am I even listening to you?” he wondered. “Where’s Sarah? I should be talking to Sarah, not you.”

“She’s talking to Sherl.”

“What?!” John swung his legs to the opposite side of the bed from where Irene sat. “No! Nonononono! They don’t even like each other!”

“Well, but they both care about you, so . . . You want some help?” John had started to stand, but his body was still not fully cooperating, and he’d been forced to sit again.

“Just go get Sarah,” he sighed. “Please.”

“You really like her?” Irene asked.

“Yes, I really like her.”

“ _Really_ really?”

“Oh my God.” John put his face in his hands. “How has he not killed you?”

Irene looked him over. “You should put a sheet on the bed at least,” she pronounced. “And shave.”

***

SARAH KNOCKED SOFTLY but wasn’t surprised when she received no answer. She eased the door open a fraction. “Um . . .”

“I’m in no mood for your particular brand of crazy, Irene,” Sherlock intoned, his voice muffled.

Sarah stuck her head in farther and saw Sherlock was lying facedown on the bed. “Ribs must be feeling better then,” she remarked.

She took a subversive sort of gratification from his startled expression when he turned over. “What are you doing here?”

Stepping into the room, Sarah said, “For some reason your friend thought it might help if we had a chat.”

Sherlock’s eyes traveled to the ceiling but he didn’t respond.

“Nice cut there,” Sarah went on. “Adding to your collection?”

Nothing.

“All right, well, this has been lovely,” said Sarah. “I’ll just . . .”

“How is John?” Sherlock finally asked.

“What?” Sarah practically yelped in surprise. “Oh, uh, I don’t really know; I didn’t have much chance to speak to him.”

Sherlock sat up in alarm. “Where did he go?”

“To his room. Your friend—Irene—she’s gone to talk to him.”

“And you let her?!”

“I don’t think she means any harm.”

“Irene usually does the most harm when she least means it,” said Sherlock, preparing to rise.

“Wait,” said Sarah suddenly. She took a deep breath. “Look, I know you saw John through his being ill, but you didn’t have to, you know, do it alone. What I’m trying to say is, I really wish you had called me . . .”

Sherlock targeted her with narrowed eyes. “John specifically asked me not to call you.”

“Oh,” answered Sarah, visibly affected, but she rallied quickly. “And I suppose that was one time you chose to listen to him.”

“It was a matter of pride, with which I can sympathize. So yes, I acceded to his wishes on that point.”

They stared at one another, until finally Sarah bit her lip and asked, “Was he very sick?”

Sherlock’s gaze unfastened from her, and Sarah thought he must be remembering. After a moment he nodded. “He spoke . . . to you . . .”

A cold dread trickled through Sarah. “How do you mean? He was delirious? Hallucinating?”

Still not looking at her, Sherlock nodded again, slowly.

“What did he say?”

Now Sherlock shook his head.

“What, you’re not going to tell me?”

This time he met her eyes but still didn’t speak.

“Is this what the two of you are fighting about?” Sarah wondered.

“We’re not fighting.”

“Irene said—”

“Irene is a hopeless romantic. She reads too many novels and fashions drama out of thin air in order to make her own life more exciting.”

“Your love for your friends is overwhelming,” Sarah remarked dryly.

“I don’t let how I feel about someone color the truth,” Sherlock told her.

“Admirable,” said Sarah. “I’m amazed you admit to feeling anything at all.”

“Is this chat finished then?”

“Do you feel better yet?”

“No. Was that your intent?”

Sarah sighed. “I don’t even know any more. I don’t really like you, the way you use John, but you keep surprising me. And for whatever reason, John is fond of you.”

“He’s more fond of you, I assure you,” said Sherlock.

Sarah searched his face, trying to read into his words, but she came up empty; Sherlock’s face betrayed nothing.

From the living room a voice called, “Sherlock! Where the bloody hell are you?”

Sherlock did rise then and pushed past Sarah. “Lestrade,” he acknowledged. “Have you brought John’s gun?”

“You don’t get that back until we’re fully done with the investigation. In the meantime, I need to talk to you, and Anderson’s coming with a swab kit for the doctor.”

“Swab—?”

Anderson appeared at the door. “Where is he?”

“What’s going on?” Sarah asked from behind Sherlock.

Anderson’s eyebrows rose. “And who is this?”

Sherlock ignored the question. “Give me the kit.”

Anderson scowled. “No.”

“Is he still recovering?” Lestrade asked. “Mrs. Hudson said the two of you were finally up and about.”

“Were you sick too?” asked Sarah.

“Give me the kit,” Sherlock said again. “I’ll swab him.”

“Oh, I bet you will,” Anderson hooted.

Sherlock started toward Anderson, and Lestrade put up a hand to stop him. “Anderson, give him the kit.”

“He’s not qualified to—”

“Give him the kit!” snapped Lestrade.

With a growl of protest, Anderson handed it over. “Get him out of here,” Sherlock said to Lestrade as he turned toward John’s room.

“You heard him,” Lestrade said.

“How do we know he won’t just do his own cheek?” asked Anderson.

“Because you already have my DNA on file, you imbecile,” said Sherlock as he stalked off.

“Downstairs, Anderson,” Lestrade ordered. “Now.”

Anderson grumbled and departed. Sherlock paused and looked back at Lestrade. “Should I ask what you’re looking for?”

The inspector’s eyes darted toward Sarah, who was watching and listening avidly. “Just trying to match some, er, bodily fluids found at the scene.”

“What scene?” Sarah asked.

But Sherlock only clenched his jaw as he entered John’s room.

***

“OH MY GOD.” John put his face in his hands. “How has he not killed you?”

Irene looked him over. “You should put a sheet on the bed at least,” she pronounced. “And shave.”

From the living room a voice called, “Sherlock! Where the bloody hell are you?”

“Who’s that?” Irene asked, slipping off the edge of the bed.

“Sounds like Lestrade,” John answered absently. “Probably needs Sherlock’s help with a case.”

Irene walked quietly to the door and put her ear near it. “Case?” she asked.

“Lestrade is a detective inspector. You could just go out there,” John suggested, hoping to get rid of her.

But Irene shook her head. “Then who is Anderson?”

“Anderson? Why would Anderson be here?” John wondered.

“They’re arguing.”

“Not surprising; Sherlock and Anderson don’t—”

Irene stepped abruptly back from the door, just as it swung open. Before Sherlock could say anything, she flung herself at him, gave him a quick kiss and departed, kicking the door closed behind her.

Sherlock stood looking over his shoulder for a minute, not entirely sure he comprehended what had just happened. “What was that about, I wonder?”

“Funny, I didn’t really have her pegged as your type,” John said sullenly.

“It’s not like that,” said Sherlock as he rounded the bed to where John sat.

“You didn’t seem to mind much.”

“If I minded every time Irene did something bizarre, I’d be in a perpetual state of anxiety,” Sherlock told him as he took a seat beside John and opened the sealed bag that contained the swab kit.

“What’s this for?” John asked.

Sherlock extracted the cotton buds. “DNA swab. Open.”

But John drew back. “What do they want it for?”

“It’s not that unusual; they need to match people to residue at the scene.”

“Residue. Like what, hair? Blood?” John asked.

“Among other things, I would imagine.” Sherlock inhaled deeply. “John, they’re going to need a statement from you. I don’t think they’ll try to involve you in the court case directly because your testimony would be suspect, but they’re still going to ask you some questions about . . . what you remember. Do you follow?”

John stared at Sherlock as if the answers were in his flatmate’s face. “I don’t. Remember,” he said determinedly.

But Sherlock knew better. “You can play it that way if you like, but you’re setting yourself up for them asking you repeatedly. And the questions may only get more invasive depending on what they find at the scene.”

John studied Sherlock a moment longer, then looked away. “Did he do those things to you?”

Sherlock understood “he” to mean Whitcombe. “That’s neither here nor there,” he replied brusquely.

John whipped his head back around. “It’s everywhere! You wear it like an invisible suit! You won’t even let me—” He reached toward the cut on Sherlock’s temple, but Sherlock deftly drew away. “Maybe we should get _Irene_ to put a bandage on it; you seem to have no problem letting her drape herself all over you.”

“John . . .”

“You let Moriarty carve a map into your chest—”

“John.”

“But when I try to help you, you act as if _I’m_ the one torturing you!”

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock asked.

“I want—” John reached out again, and this time Sherlock stayed still, watchful, permitting John to run two fingers along what remained of the cut, which had almost completely healed over the time since the incident that had caused it. “I want not to be a game.”

“Who said you were a game?”

“Irene.”

“And you believed her.”

John’s hand moved experimentally to Sherlock’s hairline. “She made it sound reasonable.”

Sherlock felt as if the world around him had slowed down. “Irene . . . has a way . . . of making . . . the most ridiculous things seem . . . like a good idea.”

“Was she wrong?” John murmured as his fingertips pushed toward an ear.

“We should . . .” Sherlock realized his eyes were closing, that he was dangerously close to allowing the sensation of John’s hand in his hair to derail him. He shook himself awake, throwing off John’s touch. “We should do the swab; they’re going to start wondering what we’re doing in here.”

John watched Sherlock fumble with the cotton buds and the container designed to hold them once the sample was taken. “You’re shaking,” he observed.

“Overtired,” said Sherlock curtly. “Open.”

This time John obliged. Sherlock ran the buds along the inside of John’s cheeks, dropped them into the container and sealed it. “Done,” he said as he stood. He was almost to the door when John asked, “You want to know what I remember?”

Sherlock stopped short but didn’t turn around. “Would you feel better if you told me?”

“Probably not,” John admitted.

Sherlock took the final three steps to the door, had his hand on the knob, and had almost made good his escape when John added, “But I should at least thank you.”

Honestly bewildered now, Sherlock looked back at his flatmate. “For what?”

“Coming to get me. Staying with me. You could have sent me to a facility. Would’ve saved you a lot of trouble.”

“You asked to come home,” Sherlock said simply, as if that were the final word on the subject.

“Mrs. Hudson said you were here the whole time. I remember . . .” But John couldn’t think of the right way to phrase what he wanted to say. What good could come of declaring to his flatmate, _I remember how warm you were, and gentle, and the low hum of your voice when you spoke to me, so that even though I couldn’t make sense of the words I liked the sound, and finding you there when I woke made me feel safe and cared for in a way I hadn’t since I was a child_? No, there was no sensible way to do that.

Sherlock waited, but John seemed disinclined to finish his sentence. So Sherlock asked, “Who’s Fiver?”

The question pulled John out of his tangential musing. “Fiver?” he echoed. “He was a lad in our brigade. We called him that because he was always so nervous, so sure we were all going to die.”

Sherlock stared blankly.

“ _Watership Down_?” John prompted.

Sherlock shook his head to indicate he didn’t know it.

“Can’t take up valuable space in your brain with that kind of thing, I suppose,” John muttered. “What made you ask about Fiver?”

“You spoke to a lot of people while you were . . . unwell. But you spoke to him most often,” Sherlock told him.

John nodded. “I was worried he might be right this time. But it seems your caring saved me after all.”

“Then it was a mistake worth making,” said Sherlock as he pulled open the door.

He found Sarah sitting in a chair, her attention focused on the floor, while Lestrade and Anderson sat on the sofa (causing Sherlock to wonder, briefly, where the post had been relocated), each holding mugs of tea. “Must’ve been a thorough swabbing,” said Anderson with a grin. Sarah flinched but didn’t look up.

“Who let you back in?” Sherlock demanded.

Anderson’s eyes traveled across the room to where Irene stood holding her own cup. She gave an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t know how long you guys would be, so I figured I couldn’t just leave him outside.”

“Yes, you could,” Sherlock told her. He tossed the container of cotton buds at Anderson. “Go.”

Anderson rose and set his cup on the table. “I’d be happy to send you a copy of our findings.”

The malicious and suggestive tone divulged a deeper understanding of the situation than Sherlock had been prepared for. He turned to Lestrade, who reluctantly stood as well. “Go on, Anderson,” the inspector directed. “I’m likely to be a while yet.”

With a smug expression and a spring in his step, Anderson departed.

“I suppose you need to speak to John,” Sherlock said to Lestrade.

“I need to speak to you first,” Lestrade replied. “And I think his girlfriend here might like a turn to visit him in any case.”

Sarah lifted her head and blinked at the two men. “Is it all right?” she asked.

Lestrade looked to Sherlock who in turn gave a little shrug. “That’s up to John. You’re free to ask him yourself.”

The expression Sarah flashed at him as she passed on the way to John’s room bordered on loathing, though it was the ounce of pity in it that irritated Sherlock most. Striving to ignore it, he asked Lestrade, “What do we need to talk about?”

Lestrade glanced at Irene. “It’s more of a private conversation.”

Sherlock was ready to defend his friend’s presence, but Irene set down her tea and practically skipped over to where they stood. “It’s fine, Sherl,” she told him. “I’ll meet you for dinner later.” Her eyes darted in the direction of John’s room. “If you’re not too busy.” She smiled at Lestrade and left.

“I didn’t know the two of you had girlfriends,” Lestrade remarked.

“She’s just an old friend.”

“Didn’t know you had any of those, either.”

Sherlock sensed that Lestrade was stalling. “What’s this private conversation about?”

Lestrade shifted his weight slightly, a direct sign of his discomfort. “Charles Whitcombe,” he said.

“What of him?”

“Not unknown in the court system as it turns out.”

Sherlock only stared, unwilling to help the inspector come to the inevitable terminus of this line of inquiry.

Lestrade swallowed. “He spent seven years in prison for indecent assault and gross indecency with a minor, a little time added for evidence that he planned to abduct the boy. This was, oh, about twenty years ago.”

“And?”

“Well, the boy’s name isn’t in any of the paperwork, his being a minor and all. But the name of the person bringing charges . . .”

Sherlock silently cursed Mycroft for not having buried that deeper. “What do you want to know?” he asked Lestrade.

“It will depend on what Anderson finds, won’t it?” answered Lestrade. “Though Whitcombe’s past dealings with you could certainly go to motive.”

“You think Anderson will discover that Whitcombe did to John what he did to me twenty years ago,” Sherlock concluded.

“I’m going to have to ask him, Sherlock,” Lestrade warned. “Do you think he’s well enough for that yet?”

“I’m not his keeper.”

“Really? Because I’ve heard different. You’ve been holed up here for almost a week, like an eagle guarding an injured chick.”

Sherlock sighed. “Are you saying you want me to testify?”

“John can’t, it’d be no good. They’d attack everything he said because of the drugs.”

“Then why ask him at all? Why not just leave him alone?”

“We have to look at everything. You know that. But it would be better to start at the beginning. So if you could tell me . . .” Lestrade shifted his weight some more. “What happened between you and Whitcombe . . .”


	9. Chapter 9

“JOHN?” SARAH ASKED as she opened the door a fraction.

He was sitting where Sherlock had left him on the far side of the bed staring at the curtains as if seeing through them.

“How are you feeling?” Sarah went on, easing into the room and quietly closing the door behind her.

“Hm,” was the only answer John offered.

“Want me to help you make the bed?”

John looked down at the naked mattress. “Need to do the wash; I don’t have any other sheets.”

“Oh.” Sarah was momentarily stymied by this odd fact of bachelorhood. “We could just put the bedspread back over it,” she finally suggested.

John only shrugged.

“John . . .” Sarah came around the foot of the bed in hopes of catching and keeping his attention. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what’s going on?”

He did lift his head and look at her then. “Going on?”

“They’ve just taken a DNA sample from you,” said Sarah. “I assume there’s a reason.”

John blinked rapidly. “There was . . . a crime. I was at the scene, so . . . They need my DNA to match what they find.”

She sat heavily on the bed next to him. “They don’t think you did it?”

“No.” John opted to omit that he was counted as a victim. Although there was a fair chance Sarah would lavish him with affectionate attention if she knew (barring the details, which he wouldn’t divulge in any case), there was equal chance she’d blame Sherlock for the whole thing, and John didn’t feel up to dealing with the acrimonious tension this would cause.

But Sarah wasn’t the type to let questions go unanswered, either. “Then you were there as what? Helping Sherlock?” she asked.

John briefly considered lying. But he was terrible at it. So he evaded. “Not exactly. Sherlock wasn’t there; he was in New York.”

“What, with the crazy girl? Is that where she's from?”

John nodded.

“Well, it’s good of you to help out and all, but it worries me a bit when you get involved in these things,” Sarah told him.

“Sort of got roped into this one,” John muttered.

“If you keep letting him rope you into things, you’re eventually going to get hurt. Well, look! You have already!”

John looked to her again, startled and wondering how much she knew.

“You’ve been shot, for one,” Sarah pointed out, referring to an incident some months past. “And even when you aren’t physically hurt, he never takes your feelings into account.”

“It’s not his fault,” said John. “He doesn’t think that way is all.”

“And you think that’s okay? That because he so smart, it’s fine for him to walk all over people?”

“He just spent the past four days taking care of me while I was sick, Sarah. He’s not evil.”

“No,” Sarah agreed. “But he’s not kind.”

“He’s got it in him,” John asserted. “It’s just going to take some work is all.”

“Well, he cares for you,” said Sarah, giving John another little start. “For whatever reason. But for that much, at least, I can be grateful.” She stood. “I don’t want to tire you out, and I’ve got some errands to run. But I will be back with some sheets for you.”

John gave her a wan smile. “Right. Thanks.”

She leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Get some rest. I know it must feel like you’ve been in bed forever, but you don’t want to overdo it by taking on too much too soon.”

“Yes, Doctor,” John replied obediently as she left. He sat there a minute, eyeing the mattress speculatively. Despite the weight of fatigue that was falling over him, the bed didn’t appear very inviting.

He rose and was pleased to find that he could stand without the room swaying around him or his legs threatening to give way. Walking was still a bit of a challenge, however, since each step caused everything to appear to move too fast. But John didn’t feel he could stand being left alone with his thoughts much longer, so he pushed on and eventually made it to his bedroom door.

He found Sherlock and Lestrade seated almost unnaturally close on the sofa. “What’s going on?” he asked, and Sherlock froze mid-sentence in whatever he’d been telling the inspector.

“You should be in bed,” said Sherlock.

“No, I really shouldn’t,” John told him.

Lestrade stood. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” John admitted. “What are you two so cozy about?”

“We’re just—” Lestrade began.

“Whitcombe,” Sherlock interjected. “We’re discussing Whitcombe. Do you have anything you’d like to add?”

John realized this was intended to run him off, which only made him determined to stay. He took a seat in the chair. “Well, since I don’t know what’s already been said . . .”

Sherlock’s expression was cold, and John thought of how Sarah had called him unkind. Lestrade, meanwhile, looked distinctly uncomfortable, until Sherlock said, “He knows. Not the details, but enough.”

This seemed to relieve Lestrade, who sat again, though not so close to Sherlock as before.

It dawned on John what they must have been talking about, and for a split second he thought maybe he should leave after all. But Lestrade was already carrying on, though he darted glances in John’s direction regularly. “It went on for . . .?”

“About four months. We were coming to the end of spring term,” said Sherlock.

“But he never gave you drugs.” The statement had the tone of something that had been asked at least once before.

“No.”

“You didn’t want to be with him, though, did you?” John asked suddenly.

Sherlock turned to his flatmate. “I was fifteen, John; I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“Most fifteen year olds don’t,” Lestrade agreed soothingly, “which is why it’s considered that they’re unable to consent. Now, were you aware of his plans to abduct you?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly. “He’d talked about leaving, but never in concrete terms. It was rather more poetic.”

John snorted and Sherlock scowled at him.

“Why didn’t you just leave?” demanded John.

“And go where? Home?” Sherlock sighed. “The term was ending soon, so I decided to wait.”

“Until you got your marks?” John asked, his tone laced with derision.

“It’s not as if he were brutalizing me, John.”

“Oh, so you liked it?”

“I never said I liked it,” Sherlock responded stonily. “I simply had no power in the situation.”

“And so you’ve spent the past twenty years making sure you hold all the power in every situation,” said John.

“Whoa! Hold on!” Lestrade put in. “Let’s stick to what will help our case, shall we?”

“Gladly,” muttered Sherlock.

Lestrade glanced uneasily between the two men before taking up his inquiry once more. “The file shows you were there the night they arrested Whitcombe.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t end up finishing out the term after all,” said John.

“The school allowed me to finish in absentia.”

“Is it reasonable to believe Whitcombe would hold a grudge?” Lestrade asked.

“He professed not to, but it could have been a lie,” Sherlock observed.

“But why you and not your brother?” Lestrade wondered. “Mycroft was the one to ruin him.”

“Did he love you?” John asked.

Sherlock was startled. “What?”

“Do you think he honestly loved you?”

“How should I know? And what difference could it make?”

“It makes all the difference,” said John. “If he really cared for you and felt you had abandoned him . . . You said he was poetic, after all.”

“The doctor’s right,” Lestrade said. “It would go to motive.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “You’d have to ask Whitcombe, then. I’ve never been good at . . . that kind of thing.”

John barked a laugh. “He can detect anything but an authentic emotion.”

“Why didn’t he find you sooner?” asked Lestrade.

“My guess is Mycroft prevented him from contacting me, at least until Whitcombe had a desperate enough reason to do it regardless of any threats,” Sherlock said.

“And that reason was?” the inspector urged.

“Moriarty posed a bigger and more immediate threat.”

“Mycroft tried to warn us,” John put in, “with the letter. He must have known Whitcombe was around, even if he didn’t know what Whitcombe was planning.”

“Letter?” Lestrade asked sharply.

Sherlock’s cheeks colored. When it appeared he wasn’t going to answer, John said, “Mycroft left it for me, an old letter from Whitcombe to Sherlock, written early on during his imprisonment.”

“He wrote to you?” Lestrade asked Sherlock.

“I never received it; I hadn’t seen it until Mycroft left it for John. There could be hundreds and I’d never know it.”

“We’ll need to see it,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock sucked in air. “I destroyed it.”

John’s face registered surprise. “When?”

“At Weald House.”

“Well, do you remember what it said?” Lestrade inquired.

“That he didn’t blame me, and that he would come find me after he was released.”

“But he didn’t,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“If you had answered the door,” Lestrade asked suddenly, “would he have kidnapped you instead?”

“No,” Sherlock answered flatly. “This was planned, most likely by Moriarty.”

“Did you love him?” John interjected.

Once again Sherlock was thrown off. “What?”

“Or think you loved him at least?”

“No. John, are you angry with me about this?”

“I’m angry about what it’s done to you, that Whitcombe has made it that much harder for anyone else,” said John.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Right, so . . . We should move on to what happened with you then, Doctor.”

“I don’t remember much,” John answered evasively, “but you’re free to ask, and I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, who had suddenly found something very interesting out the window, at which he was staring intently. Then the inspector returned his attention to John. “You met Whitcombe for the first time the night he abducted you?”

“That’s right.”

“But you knew of him from the letter Mycroft had left you.”

John nodded.

“You answered the door . . .”

“The second time, yeah,” said John.

“The second time?” Lestrade echoed.

“Sherlock answered the first time Whitcombe came by.”

At the sound of his name, Sherlock stirred and found the other two men staring at him expectantly.

“Whitcombe came here twice? The same night?” asked Lestrade

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed.

“And you let him in.”

Sherlock blinked. “I’d say he asked himself in, really.”

“But you didn’t prevent him.”

“I was too surprised to see him to think of stopping him,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade sighed. “All right. So he came here and what? You had a chat?”

“Of sorts,” John said.

“You met him then too?” Lestrade asked him.

“Yeah. I was getting ready for bed, but . . . It was clear Sherlock didn’t want to be alone with him, so I stayed until Whitcombe left.”

“Good of you,” remarked Lestrade. When John didn’t respond, he went on, “But Whitcombe left without any sense of malice.”

“Seemed more regretful than anything,” said John. “Although he did promise to see Sherlock again soon.”

“And then you went to bed?” Lestrade asked.

John’s eyes moved in his flatmate’s direction, but Sherlock had gone back to staring out the window. “Sherlock went to shower and I agreed to wait up.”

“And Whitcombe returned while Sherlock was in the shower,” deduced Lestrade. “What did you think when you saw he’d come back?”

“I didn’t have time to think anything; I didn’t even realize it was him until after he’d jabbed me in the neck with a needle.”

“Sherlock,” said Lestrade, and the detective turned, “you’re certain Whitcombe came back for John?”

Sherlock flicked his gaze toward his flatmate. “Yes.”

“But how could he know John would answer the door?”

“It’s a fifty-fifty chance,” said Sherlock, “but given that I had gone to my room before Whitcombe took his leave during his first visit, he—rightly, as it turned out—assumed chances were good that John would be the one to answer his knock.”

Lestrade internalized this then turned again to John. “And do you remember what happened next?”

“Not much,” John told him. “I remember . . .” He glanced at Sherlock. “His hands were dry. They felt like paper.”

John was subversively gratified to see he had his flatmate’s full attention now. Sherlock had gone very still in his seat, his bright eyes concentrated on John’s face.

“That’s an odd thing to remember,” said Lestrade.

John shrugged.

“But the trip to the hotel, any of that?” Lestrade asked.

John shook his head. “It’s all foggy, I’m afraid. I remember Moriarty . . .”

“He was there?” asked Sherlock.

“At one point, yeah. He told Whitcombe to . . . leave me alone.”

Lestrade was confused. “Stop giving you the drugs?”

“No,” Sherlock answered for his flatmate. “He was telling Charles to stop molesting John. Which, knowing Charles, would be counterproductive, since there’s nothing he likes more than tasting forbidden fruit. So to speak.”

John’s eyes were fixed on the center of the table. “He had this way of putting his hand behind my neck . . . To stop me from drawing back, I guess.”

“It gives you nowhere to go,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade looked from one to the other of them. “Maybe we should stop there for now.”

But John shook himself and said, “No, it’s fine. I’m fine. Um . . . I lost track of time, so I don’t know how often he was giving me the drugs, but there was more in the syringe each time. An opiate of some sort, clearly.”

Lestrade nodded. “Right, the lab said it appeared to be some new derivative of heroin or opium.”

“Depressed respiratory function, euphoria followed by sleepiness, loss of appetite . . .”

“You look as if you’ve lost some weight,” Lestrade agreed. “Aside from Moriarty, did anyone else visit the room?”

“Not that I recall. No one real, anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think I hallucinated a bit,” said John, but he didn’t elaborate.

Lestrade rolled his shoulders and shifted on the sofa. “Do you, uh . . . Do you think, then, that the samples we took from the sheets will match you and Whitcombe?”

“We were the only ones in the bed at any point,” John answered with more bravado than he felt.

Sherlock went white.

Lestrade stood. “I should get back to headquarters and put all this . . . in the file . . .” He made no further excuse for his hasty exit.

After a minute of strained silence Sherlock rose and went for his coat.

“Where are you going?” John’s voice was hollow.

“I told Irene I would meet her for dinner. Would you like to come?”

“She’ll just give me a hard time about my beard.”

“There is the chance of food getting caught in it,” Sherlock said with forced levity. “But really, she’s probably just remembering how she had to shave mine for me after my recovery.”

John stared.

“Do you want help with it?” Sherlock went on.

“All right.” John stood and walked toward the bathroom while Sherlock shrugged off his coat and followed.

“I feel like you’re very close,” John found himself saying a few minutes later as his flatmate stood in front of him, carefully running the razor over John’s cheeks.

“I _am_ very close,” Sherlock murmured. “I have to be in order to . . .” His voice trailed as he made another pass with the blade. “I’m sorry, John. About Charles.”

“I know. But it wasn’t your fault. Not then and not now.”

“Don’t talk,” Sherlock instructed. Silence fell between them as Sherlock concentrated on what he was doing. “There,” he finally declared. “Sarah will be pleased, I’m sure.”

“She’s bringing me sheets,” mused John.

“That’s progress.” Sherlock set the razor beside the sink and stepped back. “Does that mean you don’t want to come to dinner?”

“She didn’t say when she was bringing them,” John reasoned.

“No use waiting around then,” said Sherlock.

They took a cab to the nondescript hotel in which Irene was staying, and John found it felt both strange and comforting to be back in such a familiar situation. “How did you know where she was staying?” he asked as they entered the building.

“She left a note in my pocket.”

John quietly absorbed that, then said, “You should have called first. It’s a little early for dinner, after all. What if she’s out somewhere?”

“Why are you so nervous?” Sherlock asked him.

“Who said I’m nervous?”

“You always talk a lot when you’re nervous. Here.” Sherlock stopped in front of one of the doors and rapped on it loudly. A few seconds later it swung open and they were greeted with a screech of, “Sherl! You’ll never guess who I’ve—”

Irene stopped short when she saw John. He offered a small wave.

“Who you’ve what?” Sherlock asked mildly as he pushed past her into the room. “Robbed this time?”

John stayed at the threshold, held there by Irene’s wide, green eyes.

“Not this time,” another voice said from somewhere in the room. A smooth, masculine voice. “Not yet anyway.”

Irene finally stepped back and gestured for John to enter, even as Sherlock shot her a dark look from over his shoulder. She gave him a hopeless little shrug.

And now John caught a glimpse of a handsome and well-dressed man, someone he’d seen before somewhere . . . In a magazine, maybe? Yes, the man was in print ads for some high-end fashion label, he was suddenly sure of it. “Who is that?” he wondered aloud.

“That is Christopher,” answered Irene.

“Boyfriend?” John asked her.

“Used to be,” said Irene.

“Well it’s good you can be friendly about it,” John remarked.

“What? Oh! No, not mine. Sherl’s.”

John felt his legs threaten to give out again; clearly he’d pushed himself too far too soon by venturing out. He reached for the wall behind him and leaned against it.

“I’m sorry,” Irene said. “I was just trying to find a way for Sherl to release some . . . tension. I didn’t know you were coming too, or I never . . . But wait!” She placed a hand on John’s forearm, and he found himself staring at her well-manicured fingers; the woman had absolutely no boundaries. “This is perfect, actually!” she went on, laughing. “You and I can go to dinner and—”

John was ready to tell her exactly where she could go, but Irene’s laughter had drawn Sherlock’s attention from across the room. He took in the sight of Irene’s hand on John’s arm and the way she was beaming up at him, and moved as if to walk over. But Christopher said something then, dragging Sherlock’s attention back to him.

“Sherl,” Irene called across the room, now winding her arm through John’s, “I’m going to feed this poor man before he faints.”

Sherlock stepped toward them, but Christopher called back, “Okay, Irene; we’ll catch up later.”

“You can guess who managed the calendar in that relationship,” Irene muttered to John as she towed him toward the door. “But then, if it had been up to Sherlock, they’d never have gone anywhere unless a body was involved. A dead one, I mean.”

“Maybe I should just go back to the flat,” said John as the hotel room door fell shut behind them.

“And leave me all alone in the middle of London with nothing to eat? You’re a better man than that,” Irene assured him as she pressed the elevator call button. “How’s Sarah, by the way? Not too upset about everything, I hope.”

John stared down at the top of Irene’s red head and wondered if maybe she had a mental disorder. “Look, you don’t know me and you don’t know Sarah. So what difference could it possibly make to you if she were upset?”

Irene sighed. “She _is_ upset then.”

“You’re a lunatic.”

The elevator opened and they stepped inside.

“But so much more fun than sitting around an empty flat with nothing to eat,” Irene pointed out. “I saw your cupboards; I don’t know how the two of you haven’t died of starvation. Though you look close.” She gave John a poke in the ribs.

“I know Sherl doesn’t eat much,” Irene went on, adding dourly, “His mother’s fault.”

“You’ve met her?” John asked.

Irene shook her head. “But Sherl’s told me about her. She used to send him to his room without supper whenever he misbehaved. But it backfired; instead of behaving, he just got used to not eating.”

“I can picture that,” said John.

“Oh my God, _you’ve_ met her?” Irene practically squealed as they stepped into the lobby. “If Sherl took you home to Mummy, things must be serious. Now where should we eat?”


	10. Chapter 10

“SHERL! YOU’LL NEVER guess who I’ve—”

“Who you’ve what?” Sherlock asked mildly as he pushed past her into the room. “Robbed this time?”

“Not this time,” came the familiar voice from the other side of the room. “Not yet anyway.”

Sherlock shot Irene a dark look from over his shoulder. She answered with a hopeless little shrug. 

“I could hardly believe it when I ran into Irene,” said Christopher. “She hasn’t been over in ages. Want something from the minibar?”

“No,” Sherlock answered shortly, irritated that John and Irene were staying by the door.

Christopher failed to be ruffled. “Ah, there’s the Sherlock I remember. You look the same. Cleaner, maybe.”

Sherlock only rolled his eyes.

“He yours?” Christopher asked with a nod toward John.

“My flatmate,” said Sherlock.

“I trust he’s not a distraction,” said Christopher.

“He helps me, actually. He’s a doctor.”

“Doesn’t look it. Don’t doctors usually dress better?”

“John leans more toward the humanitarian than the—” The sound of Irene laughing disrupted his train of thought and he turned to see what she was up to. No good, by the looks of it. What was she thinking, pawing John like that?

“I can see how a ‘humanitarian’ would be of use to you,” Christopher remarked.

“Sherl,” Irene called across the room, “I’m going to feed this poor man before he faints.”

Relieved, Sherlock stepped toward them, but Christopher called back, “Okay, Irene; we’ll catch up later.”

Scowling, Sherlock asked, “What are you playing at, Christopher?”

“Why do I need to be playing at anything? Why can’t I just want to spend time with an old friend?”

“Oh, are we friends?”

Christopher leaned in closer than made Sherlock comfortable, but Sherlock refused to give ground. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“It takes courage to face you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock only turned away. “Let’s go. What was the plan for dinner?”

“I wasn’t aware there was one,” Christopher said.

“Then where did they go?”

Christopher only shrugged.

“You’re as useless as ever, I see,” Sherlock told him as he pulled out his cell phone.

“I had uses, just not enough of them, evidently. If I’d known you wanted a Swiss Army knife for a lover, I’d have tried harder.”

But Sherlock’s attention was devoted to his phone. Neither John nor Irene was responding to his texts, which meant he’d have to call, something he hated to do.

“Don’t you miss it sometimes?” Christopher asked in his ear.

“Not really,” Sherlock murmured, stepping away again so he could put his phone to his ear.

Christopher reached over and took the phone from Sherlock’s hand. “Talk to me.”

“We can talk at dinner.”

“Then let’s go someplace quiet, just us.”

Sherlock looked at him, trying to truly see the man who stood there. The nice suit, the perfect hair (more blond now than Sherlock remembered it being), the expensive watch and shoes—all of it show. But Christopher had been intelligent, too, and funny, though in a mean-spirited kind of way, his jokes coming at the expense of others, and he’d always had an ease with people that Sherlock had envied. Sherlock knew now that, too, had been superficial, almost like acting, and he wondered whether Christopher was acting now.

“I loved you once,” Christopher said, as if reading Sherlock’s thoughts. “You’ll always have that much.”

“Just as well you got over it. Give me my phone.”

Christopher slipped Sherlock’s phone into the pocket of his own trousers. “Come get it.”

“I refuse to believe you’ve been forced to resort to clichés in order to get someone to feel you up, Christopher.”

“Not ‘someone,’” Christopher agreed. “Only you. Let’s order room service.”

“In Irene’s room. Charming.”

“You know Irene,” said Christopher, crossing to the minibar, “she probably had this planned. Take your coat off at least.”

Sherlock sighed and reluctantly slipped his coat from his shoulders and dropped it onto the bed.

“You think she’d spring for a suite,” Christopher said as he walked over and handed Sherlock a glass of wine.

“Anything bigger than this would give her agoraphobia if her flat in New York is anything to go on,” replied Sherlock.

Christopher reached behind Sherlock and picked up the coat, moved it to the desk chair. “She said you’d been to visit.”

Sherlock watched warily. “You’ll be suggesting we use her bed next. How much have you had?” he asked, gesturing to Christopher’s wine glass.

“Not enough to charm you, apparently. Anyway, maybe Irene won’t come back tonight.” Christopher kicked off his shoes and removed his watch, setting it on the bedside table. These were the same things he used to do when they’d come home from one of the endless parties to which he used to drag Sherlock, and the detective was briefly overwhelmed by the sense of déjà vu.

“And if Irene doesn’t come back tonight, where will she stay? Have you given her the keys to your flat?” Sherlock wasn’t sure how far the planning for this rendezvous had extended. He glanced around, set his untouched wine on the desk.

But Christopher said, “No, but she might end up at your place with . . . John, was it? You saw her cozying up, and you know how she is; she can turn someone inside out before they know what’s happening to them.” He finished off his wine and set his glass beside Sherlock’s.

“Irene has no interest in John,” said Sherlock. “And even if she did, he has none in her.”

Christopher’s eyebrows rose. “He _is_ just your flatmate?”

“He has a girlfriend. And he’s too honest to do something he shouldn’t.”

Christopher moved in close again; he was a centimeter or two taller than Sherlock. “I suppose you’ve tested this theory?” he breathed. “Then he must be a paragon among men. You’re not usually given to such praise.”

Sherlock concentrated on the buttons of Christopher’s shirt.

“I didn’t, you know,” Christopher leaned to whisper in his ear.

“Didn’t what?” Sherlock asked numbly.

“Get over it.”

***

“IF IT RINGS, you’ll hear it,” said Irene as John checked his phone again.

“I texted him where we were . . .”

After wandering for a bit, they’d ended up in a Thai restaurant, and although John had been all for waiting, Irene had finally ordered them both something to eat. John had never seen someone so small eat so much so quickly.

“Don’t worry about them,” Irene instructed. “Eat.”

John reluctantly pocketed his phone and went back to picking at his plate of noodles. “So Sherlock used to date a model.”

One side of Irene’s mouth quirked up. “Does it bother you?”

“No. I just . . . I never thought about it, really.”

Irene sat back against the cushions of the booth they sat in. “Well, Christopher wasn’t, you know, famous back then. If that’s what you call it. He was just starting to get noticed when Sherl broke up with him.”

“Sherlock broke up with him? Why?”

“Officially? He said Christopher distracted him from his work. But there were a lot of reasons.”

“Like?”

“Looking for the scoop on your roomie?” Irene teased. “He’s not going to kick you out, John, I promise.”

“I wasn’t worried he would,” said John with a frown, now wondering whether he should be worried.

Irene sighed. “They were just too different, I guess. I mean, they look fantastic together, but Christopher kept dragging Sherl to parties so they could meet all the right people or whatever, and you can imagine how that went. It got to the point Sherl never opened his mouth without Christopher’s permission.”

John tried to picture Sherlock in the midst of a group of self-satisfied, sophisticated people and could immediately understand why Christopher would have wanted him to stay silent. Harder to visualize was anyone able to keep Sherlock from speaking if and when he fancied. “So why would you invite Christopher over when you knew Sherlock was meeting you for dinner then?”

“Because Sherl is a stress ball, in case you haven’t noticed! And if there’s one thing Christopher was good for, it was . . . that.”

John stared.

“Christopher adored him, you know,” said Irene. “He would have stayed for as long as Sherl let him.”

John reached for his phone.

***

SHERLOCK MET CHRISTOPHER’S gaze as he slipped his hand into Christopher’s pocket to retrieve his phone.

“A little to your left,” murmured Christopher with a small smile.

“‘Little’ being the key.” Sherlock grasped his phone and started to pull his hand free, but Christopher caught it.

“I love it when you’re mean.”

“And here I am, not wearing a belt,” said Sherlock dryly.

“Use mine.”

Sherlock jerked his hand loose, phone and all, and Christopher slapped him, momentarily stunning his ex. “I’ll do it again if you don’t stop me,” Christopher challenged.

Sherlock tried to counteract the surge of adrenaline by closing his eyes and breathing deeply, and it almost worked—until Christopher made good on his threat.

“You’re getting angry,” said Christopher, his voice husky. “Don’t fight it; it won’t be half as much fun.”

After tossing his phone onto the chair with his coat, Sherlock reached for Christopher’s belt. “How bad have you been?” Sherlock asked. It was a rote question, bred from old habits, and he knew Christopher’s answer before it was spoken.

“You have no idea,” said Christopher with a tight smile.

“Oh, I think I do.” Sherlock stepped back, belt in hand, and took his wine glass from the desk. Drained it. “Take off your shirt.”

 

***

JOHN WAS STARING at his phone again. “I’m starting to wonder whether they’re coming at all.”

Irene opened her mouth, thought better of what she’d been about to say, and closed it again.

John was putting the phone away when it chimed.

“Are they, uh . . . coming?” Irene asked as John read the screen.

But he was frowning. “This isn’t . . .” he murmured. “It’s not Sherlock, it’s just a link.”

Irene craned over the table. “From who?”

“Private number. Probably spam.”

“Click it.”

John’s frown deepened; his experience with private messages had not been pleasant. “What if it’s a virus or something?”

“Oh, just—” Irene leaned over the table and tapped the bright blue text that formed the link.

“Now look what you—” John began when the screen went black, but a few seconds later grayish images appeared, accompanied by muffled sound.

“Someone sent you a YouTube link?” Irene asked, straining to see. “Oh, hey, is that my hotel room?”

***

“YOU REMEMBER THE rule?” Christopher asked as he removed his shirt and undershirt. “No—”

“Marks where the camera can catch them,” Sherlock finished dully as he turned circles in the space between the end of the bed and the desk, toying with the belt. “I remember. Explains why you model suits, I suppose.”

“Well, your last playmate was clearly serious,” said Christopher with a nod at what remained of the cut on Sherlock’s temple. “Courtesy of your flatmate? There’s something to be said for having someone who can stitch you up when you’re done. You never would have let me go that far.”

Suddenly Sherlock felt oddly still inside, as if a wind had stopped blowing. And although he could still feel his heart pounding, there was a deep-seated calm at his center born of the knowledge that John would never hurt him, which struck Sherlock as simultaneously revelatory and obvious. But all he said was, “Stand over there.”

“Task master today,” Christopher commented as he moved to the far side of the bed. “You’d be amazed how difficult it is to get anyone to do this now that I’m recognizable. They’re afraid to hurt me.”

Sherlock came to stand behind Christopher and surveyed the collection of marks and scars on his bare back, some of them old and familiar, many of them newer. In this much, at least, they had been compatible; Sherlock’s need to vent his anger and frustration had coupled nicely with Christopher’s urges to be punished.

He unspooled the belt he’d wrapped around his hand and doubled it so that he was holding the ends. Before him, Christopher stiffened in anticipation.

***

IRENE TOOK THE phone from John and pushed her nose near the phone’s small screen. “What are they doing?” She could see the hotel bed, and on the other side of it stood Christopher, facing her. He’d taken his shirt off but still had his pants on.

Then she saw Sherlock move in behind. “What’s he holding?”

But John had already looked away.

***

CHRISTOPHER WAITED FOR the first strike, his nerves stretched thin, his body humming. 

And continued to wait.

He jumped when he felt Sherlock touch his shoulder, gently, Sherlock’s hair brushing his ear. “That’s a nice watch,” Sherlock murmured, and Christopher followed his gaze to the table on the far side of the bed. “A gift?”

A shiver ran through Christopher. “If you’re worried about it, I promise my current boyfriend isn’t the jealous type.”

“Unlike you,” said Sherlock. “But my guess is, your current boyfriend likes. To. Watch.”

Christopher sucked in his breath.

“Kneel,” Sherlock commanded. “There, on the edge of the mattress.”

***

“WE SHOULD GO,” John said.

“Shh,” said Irene. “Where’s the volume on this thing? I can hardly hear.”

***

 

“YOU NEVER USED to flick your wrist like that when you removed your watch,” Sherlock said as he ran his free hand down Christopher’s left arm. “But the movement was so smooth, I can see you’ve had practice at it. And the only reason I can discern for it would be so that the watch lands with the dial propped up just . . . so.” He wrenched Christopher’s arm back, looped the belt around Christopher’s wrist.

“And why would you do that?” Sherlock continued, moving on to the right arm. “For a better angle, of course. And to give the microphone mounted on the back of the face enough range.”

Christopher gave a low moan as Sherlock twisted back his right arm and used the belt to cinch his wrists together. “And are you very angry with me?”

***

IRENE LET OUT a low whistle. “Wow. He’s a total freak.”

“Turn it off,” John said, reaching for the phone.

But Irene pulled back. “I can’t. It’s like a train wreck.”

John slid out of the booth. “Well I’m done anyway. Just be sure I get my phone back when you’re finished, would you?”

“Wait!” said Irene, standing to go after him. “John, I promise, I didn’t know . . .” She stopped. “But then who sent you the text?”

***

SHERLOCK LEANED IN again to whisper in Christopher’s ear. “Sorry to disappoint you, Christopher, but I’m not angry and I’m not interested.”

Christopher’s expression slowly transformed from dreamy pleasure to outrage. “This is about your beloved doctor,” he accused.

“John is more of a man than you’ll ever be, and a better man than I’ll ever be.”

“He’ll leave you, you know,” Christopher threatened.

“I know.”

“And I’ll be waiting when he does.”

“I’ll open my veins before I ever let you touch me again,” said Sherlock. He placed a hand on Christopher’s back and pushed him forward into the mattress. “If you’re lucky, Irene will come back before maid service arrives.”

“My boyfriend . . .”

“Wouldn’t look for any help from him.” Sherlock went to the chair for his coat and phone. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I am late for dinner.” He paused, walked around the bed and lifted the watch from the nightstand. “ _On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur_ , Jim,” he said to it. “ _L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux_.”

Sherlock dropped the watch and ground it under his heel before departing.

***

IRENE TRAILED AFTER John as he strode down the sidewalk, working to keep up while still engrossed in the video on the phone. “Oh my God,” she said. “John! You missed it!”

“Thank God,” he replied.

“No, no, it was—damn, doesn’t this thing have rewind? I think he’s coming.”

“I’d really rather not know that.”

“To the restaurant,” said Irene. “We should go meet him.”

“Feel free,” John told her. “I’m going home to wash my sheets.”

“Wait!” Irene reached for his hand, but he shook her off. “Okay,” she said, “I’ll admit it was a rare error in judgment on my part, but I just—I ran into Christopher, and he asked if I’d seen Sherl, and I thought, you know . . . But look, I had no idea what a freak he was. He’d always been so nice to me!”

“If Sherlock dumped him, that should’ve been your first clue.”

“We should go back to the restaurant,” Irene insisted. “He’s going to need you.”

John snorted. “He’s never needed me.”

This time Irene hurried to get in front of John, forcing him to stop. “You _know_ that’s not true. You can be as mad at me as you want, but don’t take it out on him. He took you to meet his mother, for Christ’s sake!”

“No, he didn’t. I was simply idiot enough to follow him there. He went home to get away from me—his words. Think about that for a minute. He was willing to endure everything he hates about being home in order to escape me; what does that tell you?”

“And yet he just told Christopher that you’re a better man than he’d ever be! Sherl, I mean,” she added distractedly, “I don’t think it would be hard to be a better man than Christopher. But you see? You scramble his circuits! He flies to New York instead of going across town because when it comes to you he can’t think straight.”

“That doesn’t do much to recommend me,” John said.

“Okay,” said Irene, determined now to make John understand. “Let’s go back to the computer thing. You know how some stuff is wireless? That’s how Sherl deals with people; he doesn’t connect. They’re more like equations to him. He solves them and moves on.

“But you’re a variable he can’t solve for,” Irene went on. “And he’s absolutely terrified by that.”

“I thought I was a game,” said John.

“Well, maybe, but Sherl loves games, so that’s not a bad thing. Or maybe you’re, I don’t know, some kind of support system, a backup drive or something. Anyway, right now he needs to . . . to plug in, connect with someone.”

“So go,” John said as he started to walk again. “Plug in. I’m going home.”

Irene trotted to keep up. “Believe me, if he’d let me, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“And he won’t even let me bandage his forehead.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you to,” said Irene. “You just have to get through the firewall.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not a computer person. I’m a doctor. I deal with _people_.” And summoning the maximum of his waning energy, John increased his pace.

“Wait!” Irene called after him, and against his better judgment, John stopped and turned. “Your phone?”

John came back, took it, and as Irene turned away, he said, “Just . . . make sure he eats something, would you?”

“Computers don’t eat,” Irene muttered at his retreating back. “But _people_ do.”

***

SHERLOCK SAVED HER the trouble; he was already eating when Irene got back to the restaurant, and she took the chair across from him at the little table where he’d been seated and moved it to sit next to him instead. “Hungry?” she asked.

“Mm. Where’s John?”

“He went home.”

“Did he eat?”

“A little.”

A waiter approached and paused as he recognized Irene from earlier, his curiosity obvious. Irene grinned broadly and pointed to her companion. “This is my other one!”

Sherlock looked up. “What?”

Irene giggled. “They think I’m two-timing.”

“Mm,” said Sherlock again, going back to his food.

Irene took a deep breath and let the words out in a rush. “Why didn’t you tell me Christopher was such a freak?”

Sherlock froze. Swallowed. “I don’t tell you everything, Irene.”

She began picking at her fingernails. “I really fucked things up, huh?”

“It wasn’t entirely your fault,” said Sherlock grudgingly. “I’m willing to bet he found you.”

Head still bowed, Irene nodded.

“John saw?”

Another nod.

“All of it?”

She shook her head. “I tried to stop him, but he . . . What was that French stuff you said?” she asked suddenly.

“ _On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux._ I read it in a book, something for school. Stuck with me because I never thought it was true, but . . .”

“What does it mean?” Irene asked.

“One can only see well with the heart. What is essential is invisible to the eyes.”


	11. Chapter 11

EATING HAD DEFINITELY helped, John decided. He was able to walk without feeling like he might collapse at least.

As he mounted the stairs to the flat, Mrs. Hudson called to him, “Oh, John! Sarah was here; we had a nice chat, and she left you these.” John paused on the stairs as the landlady handed up a bundle of new sheets, though he was taken aback when she winked at him.

Well, maybe Mrs. Hudson wasn’t far wrong. Maybe Sarah giving him sheets _was_ progress of a kind. He studied them through the clear plastic packaging; they were a dusky shade of blue-purple. Almost feminine. Was that a sign that Sarah might want to lay claim to them in some way? He could only dream.

Then he saw the note.

_Hope the two of you enjoy these. –Sarah_

“What did you tell her?” John demanded.

“She asked about how it was when you were sick, so I told her all about it,” said Mrs. Hudson.

“And then she asked for some paper and a pen,” John guessed.

“It only made sense for her to leave a note in case I had to put the sheets in your flat. I didn’t know how long you’d be out, or whether you’d be back before I turned in for the night.”

John groaned and walked heavily up the rest of the way to the flat. Where did this leave him, then? With a would-be girlfriend who thought he was involved with his flatmate, and a flatmate who was involved in God only knew what. _I should just go_ , he thought. _Just pack and . . ._ But he had to be honest with himself. Leaving would make him miserable. John imagined spending his time wondering what Sherlock was up to, worrying about whether he was eating or had done something stupid to get himself hurt or worse. (The man had no instinct for self-preservation, after all.) John knew he would only end up scouring the papers looking for signs of Sherlock’s involvement in things. He’d be bored to tears, wishing he were at Baker Street, in the thick of things. It was selfish, to want to be underfoot, and stupid, too, given that since he’d met Sherlock he’d been in more scrapes than he cared to enumerate. It wasn’t a healthy environment.

But it was the most fun he’d ever had, and he loved it.

Was there any better sound than that of Sherlock’s voice when he was excited about a case? Any nicer smell than the sandalwood soap Sherlock used?

John tossed the unopened pack of sheets onto the sofa and went to turn on the radio in hopes of dispelling his black mood, or at least to distract himself from the direction his thoughts were moving. He found something suitably loud and went to make his bed. Girly or not, sheets were sheets, and these were nice ones despite the color.

He kicked off his shoes and lay down. Wondered whether Sherlock and Irene would make a night of it. Wished suddenly and piercingly for some of what Charles Whitcombe had used on him, if only so he could relax and not think about what he’d seen on his phone.

He tried to focus on the music but couldn’t. Thought about finding something to read or watch on the telly but didn’t feel like getting up. Questioned whether the video link had been from Moriarty, and if so, why?

Moriarty, who delighted in sending him text messages about how his flatmate sounded and tasted and liked to be touched.

Except Sherlock didn’t like to be touched. Not by John, anyway.

God, why was he thinking about this? He sat up. He needed to find something to do, like maybe sort through the post.

He wondered fleetingly if there were any chance he had morphine in his kit. Seemed unlikely but might be worth a look.

Or maybe Sherlock had something hidden away in his room? He’d had needles, after all.

John had half convinced himself to go check when he heard the door open. Sherlock was home early then. Had he brought Irene with him? He listened but there was no telltale chatter, and he didn’t think Irene could be quiet for very long.

The radio switched off.

Footsteps neared his door. Stopped. John held his breath, half hoping the door would open and half dreading it would.

But then the steps moved away, and with that John made a decision. He stood and was startled to discover he was shaking.

But he finally knew what he wanted.

He went to his door and pulled it open just as his flatmate appeared ready to disappear into his own room. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah.”

“Sheets?”

“Sarah dropped some by.”

“Is that a good sign?” Sherlock asked.

“Not going by the note she left with them, no. At least . . . not a good sign for her and me.”

“Oh.” Sherlock was clearly at a loss for the appropriate rejoinder. “You’ll, uh, win her over, I’m sure.”

“Maybe,” said John. “But what I’d really like to do is check your ribs.”

“They’re fine, John.”

“I’d feel better if you’d let me take a look,” John told him. When Sherlock continued to hesitate, John added, “If they’re really fine, then that will be the end of it.”

Sherlock sighed and moved toward the sofa, but John said, “I won’t be able to get a good angle there. Go lie on your bed.”

Sherlock stared.

“Or mine if you’d rather. I have new sheets.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at the door to his room then headed for John’s. “Purple?” he asked.

“It’s sort of a blue-purple,” said John.

“More like wisteria,” said Sherlock.

“You’re stalling,” said John.

“There’s not even any bruising,” Sherlock told him as he sat on the edge of the bed and began to unbutton his shirt.

“Good. Now lie back and let me take a look.”

***

SHERLOCK HAD FINISHED eating under the watchful eye of Irene and sent her back to her hotel to do with Christopher whatever she saw fit; he was sure she’d think of something interesting, maybe something he could look forward to reading about in the papers. Then he’d made his way back to the flat, trying not to take too long in getting there to prevent his apprehension from building.

The loud music had been a bad sign. Mrs. Hudson called something to Sherlock on his way up the stairs, but he hadn’t been able to hear it. He’d gone to turn the radio off straight away, mostly to avoid Mrs. Hudson having a reason to come up. Afterward he’d waited a moment to see if John would emerge, but nothing had happened. He’d gone to John’s door to listen, but there was no sound. Thinking maybe the day had been too much for his flatmate—and not wanting to think too deeply about all the possible reasons why that might be true—Sherlock had walked away.

But then John had come out. And although Sherlock had steeled himself for recrimination, or a tirade, or even just plain incoherence, John had been quite reasonable, if a little bossy. But he hadn’t thrown anything at least.

And now Sherlock found himself back where they’d started, or nearly. John had been going to examine him the night they’d last quarreled. And while this wasn’t exactly a fight, if letting John check his ribs kept his flatmate happy, Sherlock was determined to endure it.

“Take the shirt all the way off,” John directed, and Sherlock frowned. “I don’t want it getting in my way,” explained John.

“Are you this mean to all your patients?” Sherlock asked him.

“Only the difficult ones.”

Sherlock pulled his shirt the rest of the way off, then wasn’t sure what to do with it, but John took it and set it aside on the nightstand. “Lie back.”

Feeling like he was about to be caught doing something he shouldn’t, Sherlock complied. Closed his eyes. Breathed deeply. But he couldn’t stop himself from flinching when John’s fingers touched his side.

“Did that hurt?” John asked sharply.

“No. Your hands are cold.” Sherlock realized he sounded more severe than he intended, but past experience had taught him anger was an effective defense.

“Firewall,” John muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. They do seem fine. Your lacerations are healing up nicely, too. I’ll get some lotion to help reduce the scarring.”

Sherlock started to sit up. “Not necessary.”

“Stay put,” was all John said as he went to his closet and pulled out his kit.

“What do you keep in there?” Sherlock asked, distraction also counting among his defenses.

John shrugged. “A few different things.” He extracted a tube. “Here.” Sherlock held out his hand for it, but John said, “I’ll do it. Lie back down.”

Sherlock felt as if his stomach were sinking to his knees. He mentally ran through any number of excuses, ways to avoid this, but was keenly aware of John’s eyes on him. So with an aggrieved sigh, Sherlock slid back down. Closed his eyes. Breathed deeply. And tried to think of something, anything but the soft hand that was daubing lotion down his left side.

“Are you cold?” John asked.

“Hm?”

“You’re shivering.”

“No, I’m—” The fingertips were delicately feathering their way along the old wound. “That’s probably enough, don’t you think? It’s not like you’re painting the Sistine Chapel.”

“I like to be precise,” John murmured. “You feeling all right? You’re breathing’s a bit heavy.”

Sherlock shuddered when John touched the pulse point in his neck.

“Heart rate’s up,” said John. “Look at me.”

Sherlock gave his head a tiny shake.

“Open your eyes and look at me, Sherlock.”

Panic threatened. But Sherlock could think of no way out of it. If he didn’t do as John asked, John would only keep probing.

Sherlock inhaled, willing calm and control over his being, and opened his eyes. John was closer than he’d realized, leaning over him with a thoughtful, slightly worried expression. How had he not known this? How had he not felt the heat of another body this near to his? He couldn’t help but be aware of it now; the warmth lay over him like a blanket.

Sherlock fought the urge to push John away. Or pull John to him; he wasn’t sure, if he were to reach out in that moment, which he might do. Either way, touching John was not a risk Sherlock was prepared to take.

“Tell me why this bothers you so much,” John said.

Sherlock couldn’t answer, was unable to trust his voice. John’s hands were unmoving now, but Sherlock was acutely aware of them, one at Sherlock’s side and the other near his neck.

“Did I do something to you?” John asked.

Yes, oh yes, something wonderful and terrible. But Sherlock shook his head once more, managed a husky, “No.”

“What then?” John pressed.

Sherlock closed his eyes again. “I like it too much,” he finally admitted, then waited for what seemed inevitable—John drawing away, leaving in disgust.

But there was only silence and stillness until John finally asked, “Do you?”

Surprise swamping his nerves, Sherlock’s gaze returned to his flatmate.

“What do you like?” John asked, running his thumb up the long scar. “This?”

Sherlock’s heart doubled its speed. “Yes.”

The thumb made a lazy circle around an erect nipple. “This?”

His throat tight now, Sherlock could only answer, “Mm.”

John’s eyes tracked over the form of his companion as if contemplating a plan of attack. “What else?”

Sherlock reached up and pulled John into a hungry sort of kiss which John seemed slowly to warm to. Releasing him, Sherlock said, “If you want me to stop, John, you need to tell me now.”

John blinked rapidly. “No, it’s . . . It’s fine, I—I like the way you feel.”

It was an admission for which Sherlock rewarded him handsomely.

***

JOHN AWOKE ABRUPTLY and immediately questioned the cause. He was sure Sherlock hadn’t moved; the man slept like the dead.

The chiming tone sounded once more, and John realized his mobile phone had been the culprit. Where was it? The pocket of his discarded jeans, there, a few feet from the bed. Not wanting to get up, John stretched to reach them and extracted his phone.

Private Caller.

John’s heart leapt into his throat. _Just ignore it_ , he told himself, even as he opened the text.

_Tu deviens responsable pour toujours de ce que tu as apprivoisé._

His rusty textbook French didn’t serve, so John resorted to his phone’s web browser. The quote was from _Le Petit Prince_ :

_You must be responsible forever for what you have tamed._

John glanced over at his slumbering flatmate. Responsible for him? Certainly. Tamed? Not bloody likely.

Tossing his phone back onto the floor, John rolled closer to the warm body beside him and slipped back into sleep.

***

SHERLOCK’S EYES OPENED. But unlike a computer coming out of sleep mode, this felt more like a cold reboot, slow and deliberate as he scrolled through a virtual menu of his surroundings. He was exhausted, but in a good way, having indulged in at least three things he often denied himself: food, sleep and . . .

He turned his head to look at the man beside him. The smooth back was inviting, but Sherlock knew better than to touch a sleeping soldier. The one time he’d made that mistake, only his own quick reflexes had saved him from having his nose broken. Since then he’d resorted to waking John from a distance.

Sherlock stretched, and for the first time in a long while felt a sharp craving for a cigarette. Not that he had any. Nicotine patch would have to do.

Throwing back the sheet, he sat up, collected his trousers from the floor, pulled them on and slipped into the living room, stopping short at what he found.

“Nasty habit you’ve developed,” he said to the man in the chair.

“Nothing when measured against some of yours,” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock went to his desk and opened a drawer. “Any special reason you’re here?”

“Thought you’d like to know Charles Whitcombe suffered a fatal cardiac event earlier this evening.”

“Really.” Sherlock pawed through the assortment of items that had been tossed into the drawer until he came upon what he was searching for.

“Means you won’t need to testify at any rate,” Mycroft went on. “And neither will your, uh—” He made a vague gesture in the direction of John’s room.

“Saves us all a bit of trouble then,” Sherlock acknowledged as he placed the patch on his arm. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going back to my, uh—” He imitated his older brother’s gesture.

Mycroft sighed and rose. “Try not to wear your heart on your sleeve, Sherlock; it makes both you and him easy targets.”

“I’ll be sure to wear my coat when I’m out,” said Sherlock as he returned to John’s room, adding to himself as he slid back into bed, “Though I expect to be staying in for a while yet.”


End file.
